Blue Jazz
by Achromancy
Summary: War never changes... Under the Fallout, a pre-war housewife in every sense of the word has to fight to survive in a wasteland that could only exist in her worst nightmares.
1. Prologue

An alarm goes off in the early morning darkness of the suburban bungalow, coming from the otherwise quiet blue house sitting atop the slop of the hill, perfect in every sense of the word right down to the mathematically square hedges lining the bright green grass. Its neighbours all sit in relative quiet, just as bright in color and perfect in presentation as the next.

Inside, the sound jolts Nate Robertson into immediate consciousness as he lays bare-chested, blankets askew, on the right side of his double twin bed. His heart pounding, sheets soaked wet under his back, his eyes glue to the dark grey ceiling in his bedroom to focus on the sunlight streaming in across the room from the open bit of curtain on the windows. He rejects and shakes away the nightmarish fear still bubbling in his stomach from another mind twisted dream he'd suffered trying once again to sleep soundly through the night. He is mildly thankful for the military trained internal alert system that allowed him to be alert at the sound of his clock alarm, with that in mind, he reaches over and shuts it off.

He glances to the stirring woman still sleeping at his side, she didn't have to worry about nightmares as he does, because of his service to the country, and it's because of that that he harbours no regret for what he experienced. He leans over to brush her bright blonde hair off of her neck and press a gentle kiss to her bare shoulder.

Nate pulls on a pair of shorts and exits the room to cross the narrow hall, opening the sliding door directly across from the master bedroom as quietly as he can to peer into the blue and yellow accented nursery. In the center, a bright blue wooden crib sitting as quiet as the infant he can see through the bars, his son lying open armed and snoozing peacefully without a care.

With a smile, he leaves the door open just a bit and grabs a towel from the laundry room to shower.

The room is heavy with condensation when he pulls his underclothes on, sounds from outside the room alert him to Codsworth powering up and his wife speaking to their baby son. He wipes the steam from the mirror and begins to shave, the blades press awkward and uneven against the scars on his chin and jaw. One's he accumulated through battle, and most he doesn't remember getting. Once smooth, he runs a little gel through his damp hair to pull the bangs back from his face.

Parting the hair in the center, he notices the ever approaching tiny white hairs beginning to grow out into his roots, replacing his brunette crown with something far more aged than we would have preferred. He found that, not only is his hair going grey, his face is sagged with lines crinkling around his eyes and brackets that line his mouth. He doesn't remember looking this old and tired before enlistment, even the blue in his eyes is looking dull.

"Hey," A soft voice comes from the doorway behind him, pulling his attention to the woman in the reflection of the mirror, Carolyn, standing with her hand on the doorframe wearing a silky white nightgown, the one he recalls pulling off of her last night, "How did you sleep?"

"Pretty good," He lies.

"Is the medication helping?"

"Yeah, I think so," He lies again.

She looks relieved, smiling as she approaches and slides a hand gently onto his shoulder. Nate finds that lying to her lately has made her feel more at ease, especially when it's about his recovery. What she doesn't know won't hurt her; it might do the both of them good to have a little good old fashioned optimism around here.

Plus he'd do just about anything to see her smile.

"I put your suit in the closet yesterday after the drycleaners delivered," She presses a cheek to his shoulder blade, "What time do we need to be at the Veterans Hall tonight?"

"Before 1800," He rinses the gel from his hands, warmed at the sensation of her opposite hand rubbing a light circle just under the base of his shirt.

"So, six?"

"Yeah, sorry, six," He corrects.

"Okay," She steps back, "I'll put Shaun down for a nap at two. He should sleep right through the event if we're lucky. Nora wants to meet up for lunch later; maybe you could get some air while I'm gone, take Shaun to the park, or take a drive?"

"Yeah," He answers noncommittally, which Carolyn acknowledges with a soft sigh. He tries to be engaging almost all the time to prevent her from getting suspicious of his proclaimed behaviour change; however he's totally distracted by the tremor in his hands. He rubs them together and clears his throat, ready to offer her the bathroom, "All yours."

She stands between him and the door, looking up at him with concern. He passes her a playful look to reassure her that he's okay and it's enough to perk her pretty beam. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "You're going to be great tonight."

"Yes, ma'am" He agrees with a pleased hum.

He meanders out in the hall, letting his wife take over the bathroom for her own beauty regime. Bare feet on carpet, he soundlessly walks into the shared living room and kitchen portion of their small home. At the sink he passes a glance to their Mr. Handy Robo-Butler, Codsworth, already hard at work on the dishes from dinner last night.

One of the Bots three eye visors turn to see Nate as he crosses the room to the newspaper sitting on the end of the counter, "Ah, Good Morning Sir!" It exclaims with chipper that no one possessed this early in the morning, "Your coffee, 173.5 degrees Fahrenheit, brewed to _perfection_! And today's newspaper, just delivered!"

"Thanks," Nate passes it a customary smile, though he's not sure if the Bot registers things like that so much. With the newspaper in hand, he chances a sip of the coffee, a little guilty that he doesn't really have a taste for it anymore, the perfectly brewed hot beverage wasn't exactly provided on the field by demand.

He glances over to the bottle of Bourbon sitting on the alcohol dresser next to the recently used fireplace; he bought it for the occasion where Mr. Able would come over to visit and complain about anything he could think of, the night usually ended with Nate helping the old man back to his own suburban bungalow three doors down. He might have the right idea after all, a shot of that might just entice him to find the taste for caffeine again.

Nate passes a sideways acting casual glance to Codsworth before he sets the coffee down on the dresser and knocks at few ounces of the liquor into the mug. A testing sip confirms his hypothesis and he returns to scanning the newspaper with it to his lips. He's a few pages into an article on the newest flavour of Nuka-Cola when he spots Carolyn walk into the room from the corner of his eye.

"And a Good Morning to you as well, Mum!" Codsworth exclaims, "And might I say you look absolutely stunning!"

Nate's eyes lock on his wife as she smiles at the Bot and bows in a mock curtsy. She's wearing her favourite dress, pink in color with a matching set of heels. He takes in the sight of her tightly wrapped upper body generously; his mind stretches back, thinking fondly of last night before bed. Carolyn had finally found her confidence in the bedroom again after losing the baby weight; something Nate hadn't really considered a problem in the slightest, considering it was in no means an unattractive gain.

It's then, that he realizes that this is the first time she's worn this dress in over a year.

"Thank you, Codsworth," She beams.

"Of course, Mum!"

One thing Nate really missed about not having the probing Bot around in their small house is the privacy gained by just shutting the blinds at a moment's notice. He would certainly not object to having Carolyn all to himself here in the kitchen right about now, unfortunately, he hasn't yet figured out how to turn Codsworth off without the use of a blunt force instrument.

Suddenly from the end of the hall in the open nursery, Nate hears the cry of his son. Both he and Carolyn perk up simultaneously and turn to the sound like they were a pair of jackrabbits with an ear out for danger. However, before either of them could make a move to respond, Codsworth is already on the scene with surprising speed, "Ah, it sounds like someone's made a stinky! Don't trouble yourselves; I shall attend to young Shaun."

The married pair watches the Bot float down the hall and disappear into the nursery without saying a word of protest. Changing his son's diapers is one thing that Nate certainly doesn't miss.

"You know, I was a little nervous at first, but Codsworth is really good with Shaun." Carolyn hums.

Nate nods a little in agreement, "We should probably get him serviced soon."

"You know, Nora's husband was offering to come over and upgrade him for beer and a decent sandwich," She offers playfully, "Maybe we should invite them over, I feel like you and Don would really get along, you could bond over enlistment?"

Nate glances at her over the paper and responds with a dismissive hum. Nora is Carolyn's best friend, and he gets that they're not bad people. He just doesn't like how overly comfortable Don acts around him, like they're already good friends. It sets Nate on edge though he doesn't really know why, and to be honest, the last thing he'd want to talk about to a guy like that is his time on the field. He's also still pissed about Don accusing him of domestic abuse a few years back because Carolyn had gotten a large bruise on her arm from slipping in the shower, not something he's likely to forget anytime soon even though it's clear Don already has.

Besides, Nate finds it perfectly reasonable to have mild trust issues with an oriental engineer offering to upgrade the robot that babysits his infant son.

Carolyn hesitates to offer some kind of counter to his apathetic response, but she's interrupted instead by the door bell. As far as he knew, neither of them was expecting anyone to show up this early in the morning. Nate guesses it might be Nora, considering she and Carolyn are going out later, but when he cranes his head to peer through the living room window, he can see the overly familiar blue Vault-Tec vehicle sitting on the road just in front of their house. He sighs with contempt, "It's that salesman again."

"Again?" She follows his gaze through the window, "Well, I'd better see what he wants."

Nate stares after her, thinking for a moment that the looming presence of the watchful and protective husband might just cut his visit short. That and maybe she's looking a little too good in that dress, especially for someone with wandering eyes like that Vault-Tec Rep.

He sets the newspaper down and carries his mug with him as he settles himself on the red couch sitting long ways next to the opening of the door to create a hallway feel when someone walks in. It's also great for eavesdropping. Carolyn only looks down at him, knowing exactly what he's doing, and shakes her head in mild disapproval as she opens the door.

Nate looks to the man in the yellow fedora and matching trench coat, holding his clipboard to his chest with a bright and eager expression that darkens the moment he see's Nate halfway glaring him down.

He focuses back on Carolyn, tapping his fingers like he forgot what he was going to say, "Uh, good morning!"

"Good Morning" Carolyn responds, motioning to the logo on the van parked out front, "Vault-Tec, right?"

"Oh, yes! Ha-ha, right you are!" He appears to hop right back into his salesman pitch, "And I cannot begin to express how happy I am to finally speak with you, I've been trying for days. It's of the utmost urgency, I assure you!"

Carolyn glances down to Nate with an unsure and mildly amused smile before answering, "Okay, I'll bite, what's so important?"

"Why, nothing less than your entire future. If you haven't noticed, ma'am, this country has gone to heck in a hand basket, if you'll pardon the uh... language. The big kaboom is, well it's inevitable, I'm afraid. And it's coming sooner than you think." He lowers is voice a little and leans in, "If you catch my meaning."

Nate feels a growl rise in his throat; he can't stand these doomsday enthusiasts ready to exploit dread from innocent people who don't know any better. He glares at the man, wanting to be perfectly clear that this family isn't in the business of giving into fear mongering, "We're not buying anything."

The man's smile drops for a moment, "Oh, don't you worry; I'm not selling anything, not today, now, I know you're busy people, so I won't take up much of your time, time being a, um, precious commodity..." He clears his throat, "I'm here to tell you, that because of your family's service to our country," He looks to Nate, "Uh, _Your_ service Sir, you have all been pre-selected for entrance into the local Vault. _Vault 111_."

Carolyn nods slowly, "Oh, _okay_... Well, that sounds like it would be really nice, but we have a busy day ahead of us, so maybe you could just mail us the information instead, to give us time to... mull it over?"

"Oh" He waves his hands quickly, "Won't take but a moment, we just need to verify some information to make sure you're cleared for entrance, in the unforeseen event of... total atomic annihilation."

Carolyn exchanges a look with Nate, a silent conversation considering whether or not they should really bother. Nate really doubted, after the war against the Communists, that they would really risk bombing the US. All that would be good for is some good ole' fashioned Mutually Assured Destruction because without a shadow of a doubt the US would just bomb them all back.

All he cares about right now, however, is getting this salesman's shoes off of his doormat and is eyes off of Carolyn's chest, so finally he just shrugs and exclaims with heavy sarcasm, "The apocalypse? Hell, sign us up!"

The Rep laughs nervously, "That's the spirit..."

He hands the clipboard over to Carolyn and waits as she fills out the small questionnaire; it takes all about five minutes of Nate staring him down to the point where he looks like he's about to melt into a puddle the same shade as that god-awful coat. By the time she hands it back over to him, he looks like he's very eager to end the exchange and get the hell off of Nate's front steps, hopefully for good.

"Wonderful, that's everything" He points a thumb behind him, "Just... gonna walk this over to the Vault, congratulations on being prepared for the future!"

Carolyn shuts the door just about as quickly as the man takes off towards his van without giving her a chance to thank him; she turns to Nate with the spitting image of totally not impressed. He does his very best to look innocent despite his slowly growing coffee-bourbon buzz.

"Was all that necessary?"

He sips his cooling mug, "No, but I personally don't like paper-work."

She leans in and takes his coffee right out of his hands, and the moment she does, he immediately regrets being at all experimental. A single sip tells her all she needs to know, but of course she's going to ask him anyways, "Is there alcohol in this?"

Nate takes a moment to figure out exactly which response is going to come with the least amount of confrontation, "I'm not a fan of creamer."

What hits him the most about when Carolyn is angry with him, is that she never yells, she never antagonises, she never insults or belittles. When she's angry, it's wet and miserable and it always makes Nate feel like the biggest piece of shit in Boston.

"Christ, Nate, you _know_ you're not supposed to drink while on your medication, we _talked_ about this!" She urges with despondence, "Why are you even _drinking_ this early in the morning?"

A really good question, he could have put sugar in his coffee instead of bourbon, "I just thought it would improve the flavour, I don't really have a taste for coffee anymore, I thought it might help."

The look on her face tells him that she knows he's lying, maybe not even about this, but about something. Instead of figuring it out like he knows she has the smarts to do, she dismisses it with a small smile and hands the coffee back to him, "It does taste better."

"Why do you even doubt me?" He reaches out with an arm to grab her dress and pull her towards the back of the couch, close enough to hook an arm around her waist.

"You're such an ass," She sniffles back what could have been one hell of an early morning guilt trip.

"I have my moments."

With a small sigh, Carolyn reaches down to clear a few stray hairs from his forehead. He offers a bittersweet smile and presses his face into the fabric of her dress, comfort that makes him feel so exhausted all of the sudden. He really doesn't want to make a speech in front of all those people tonight; he'd rather just accept his compensation and forget any of it ever happened. He'd like to take a drive to the coast with his family, radio playing, windows open, wind mucking up any attempts at a decent amount of hair gel.

He ought to pack his uniform away. Maybe bury it in the back yard.

Suddenly, from the nursery where Codsworth had gone only minutes prior, there's the distinct sound of an unhappy infant fussing which is almost immediately followed by a wail. Nate lifts his head up just as Carolyn turns to look over her shoulder. They both watch as Codsworth bubbles back into the main room with little to no concern in its voice as it addresses Carolyn, "Mum, Shaun has been changed but he absolutely refuses to calm down! I think he needs some of that 'maternal affection' you seem to be so good at."

The comforts of a mother that a steel bulbous butler couldn't give a baby, maybe robots aren't meant to overthrow the working class after all. He lets go of Carolyn and gives her a little pat on the bum, "I'll join you in a sec, 'kay?"

She hums, "Don't bully Codsworth."

It's not bullying if he isn't receptive to it, it's more like yelling at a toaster for being a toaster, "I won't."

He allows Carolyn to make it into the hall before he lifts himself off of the couch with the fluid ease of a light buzz and steps into the kitchen to lean on the counter, watching their butler work on the last bit of cleaning. He might consider allowing Nora's husband poke around his systems if it means he could change some of its settings in the process.

"Hey, Codsworth, how would you feel about some _adjustments_?" Nate asks.

"Adjustments?" It inquires with a single oculus turning around to address him, "I'm not sure what upgrades you're referring to Sir, as my most recent diagnostic informed me my system is operating at full capacity with latest software upgrades to date! Unless of course you're referring to something off-the-books, which I highly do not advise considering the warranty would no long be valid after such... _adjustments_. However, there are minor modifications you could achieve within the contract, such as seasonal finish color!"

Nate smirks in mild victory, and then considers for a moment what a Halloween themed Mr. Handy would look like, he immediately thinks of its large bulbous head being painted like a jack-o-lantern, "Good to know, thanks."

"Do let me know if you intend to make any changes so I may plan my duties in advance."

He offers the Bot a half-hearted thumbs-up before turning to join Carolyn in the nursery. Arguing about the warranty was enough for him to say no to have Don over, if that was his only excuse. Nate is sure he can come up with something else to avoid him for the rest of his life if necessary.

Down the hall, he can hear Carolyn singing lightly to their son to calm him, which sounds like it's working pretty well. He stands by the door to listen out of view, propping himself against the wall.

 _Let's go sunnin', it's so good for you, let's go sunnin'_

He sighs lightly; he knows it hasn't been easy for either of them since he came home. There was always this undeniable wall between them that he couldn't figure out how to scale and climb, or break down in this case, in order to be as close as they were before his enlistment. It made him angry to think about how much it had changed him, how it was going to affect the rest of his life.

Sometimes, he even considered that Carolyn might be afraid of him, and that it's her that put the wall up and preventing him from getting too close. He could tell by the way she tensed at his touch.

No, it's just an adjustment period, it's been great these past eight months, and it feels like, despite not being able to sleep properly, everything's getting back to normal. Once he's able to prove to the doctor that the worst of his PTSD has passed, he'll be able to rejoin the work force and start providing for his family again. It's all this slumping around the house that's making him feel so off.

Nate considers the gift he'd been meaning to give her at the right time, perhaps sooner rather than later would be ideal. He was going to slip it to her as part of her birthday gift in November, to go with the dress he'd special ordered. But the dress could be enough for that.

Speaking off sunnin'.

Nate finally turns the corner to lean against the door frame, Carolyn holds the bundle in her arms, bobbing him in time with her soft lulling, rocking on her hips as she stares down at his chubby little face, running a finger along his cheek with a gentle grin. Nate smiles, "My boy isn't giving his mother any trouble, is he?"

"He just needed a little _maternal affection_ ," She coos at Shaun, "Right?"

"I fixed that mobile on his crib the other day," He offers, gesturing to the dangling space ships hovering just over the crib, "Give it a spin."

She reaches over and flips the small switch on the motor of the device, a cute little tune rings and the mobile starts to turn slowly. Carolyn leans over as if to show Shaun the mobile in action, pointing to it for him, "Look," She mock gasps in surprise, "Yeah, daddy fixed it for you!"

Shaun giggles at the sight, kicking his feet out, wiggling under the blanket.

"That's my boy, on his best behaviour, just like his dad," Nate grins and Carolyn gives him a look, he shrugs a little and adds, "Well, most of the time, anyway..."

Carolyn smiles at him, returning her attention to their son as he settles down. It always surprised Nate to some extent how comfortable she is with being a mother, even during her pregnancy, it's like she was born to do it. She'd often hold her stomach and talk to the growing life inside of her, talk about how nice the weather is outside, talk about how they're going to take him to the stadium like she had when she was little.

And then her stomach would growl, and she's say, _'I agree, how about some ice cream? Ice cream it is.'_

Nate had been worried about her being a first time mother, hell; he should have been worried about being a first time father because she's handling it so much better than he is. At first, he'd been scared shitless to hold his own son. Of course, he managed to figure it all out, but hearing him cry still sent him an anxious little punch to the gut.

"Hey, listen," He walks into the room, up to the end of the crib, "After breakfast, I was thinking we could head to the park for a bit, weather should hold up."

She looks over to him with bright and hopeful eyes, he doesn't often offer to get out of the house much, "That sounds great; we should also get some pumpkins from Concord, carve them up for Halloween."

"Yeah," He smirks, "I was also thinking about getting some orange paint from the hardware store, make Codsworth look like a jack-o-lantern when he powers down."

Carolyn starts to laugh, a pleasant and catchy sound that prompts Nate to follow. However, just as the giggles die down, a mildly alarmed call sounds from the other side of the house. Nate doesn't quite recognize it at first because the only other person in the house is Codsworth and it never sounds anything but chipper, "Sir, Mum, I think you should come see this!"

Carolyn frowns and calls over Nate's shoulder to the open nursery door, "What's wrong, honey?"

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," Nate assures, reaching out to press a hand to her lower back, "Maybe it forgot to wax the car or something."

Carolyn holds Shaun close as Nate guides her from the room, they file out into the living room where Codsworth hovers in the living room next to the window, staring down at the TV Nate left on while halfway listening to the morning weather. The same news reporter is still on, but the tone of his voice is low and almost trembling as he speaks, "... followed by flashes... yes, blinding flashes..."

Nate slips by Carolyn to stand next to the bot to get a clearer picture as she walks over to the front door and glances through the small window, "Nate," She says, "All of our neighbours are out on the street, what's going on?"

He doesn't answer, because he refuses to allow the dark though encircling his mind to fully process as the man on the TV receives a new bundle of papers from someone off-screen, he watches the man's expression turn despondent as he struggles to speak, "...we do have... coming in... confirmed reports. I repeat, confirmed reports of nuclear detonations in New York and Pennsylvania... My God..."

Nate's stomach drops as the signal is lost on the TV, the dull ring of the system seems to trigger another, louder, and more urgent sound from outside. A full roar that, as Carolyn opens the door seconds prior seems to enrapture his senses with the gut wrenching critical alerts that drilled into him like a whole other sense, the sound of an impending air drop, a bomb siren.

It was impossible; he'd told himself that so many times over the last year. They won the war and everything was supposed to go back to normal, that's what they had told him. This can't be happening, not to them, not when everything was so perfect.

"Nate!" Carolyn cries over the alarm, grabbing his arm and snapping him from his own frozen shock, "What's happening?!"

"We need to go," He steels himself, tearing his gaze from the black and white reel ringing silent on the TV, " _We need to go, now!_ "

Nate grabs her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her from their home, abandoning everything inside. He first see's the wind ripping at the tree's, leaves scattering and twisting at the ground, and then a large black Vertibird blast overhead what feels like inches from the tops of the houses, and like Carolyn had said, all of their neighbours are standing on the sidewalk, hesitant and scared.

"What about our home?" Carolyn curls her arms around their son, "What about Codsworth?! We can't just leave him there."

Nate shakes his head; he's not going back for anything, especially not their fucking butler. He gives her a light shove in the direction of the only place he knew would be safe, that Vault, "There's no time," They both start to jog down the street, "They've already dropped in New York!"

Carolyn turns her head to look at their house, which Nate assumes is going to be the last time either of them see it, but he can't think of that now, he can't afford to be wistful in a time sensitive situation. The bombs could drop here literally at any second, and the close they get to the Vault, the higher chance they'll have of surviving.

They make it down the street to where Vault-Tec employees are guiding people off into the forest, a path that the locals used to use to get up to the plot of land that used to be a sight-seeing destination turned into make-out point. It had been purchased a while ago and cut off for the long duration of construction, but Nate and Carolyn had moved in long after it had been complete. He's not even sure there were houses here until after it was finished.

Another large Vertibird flies overhead, announcing that all residents make their way to the Vault, the family of three passes the halfway point, crossing the bridge and up the steep incline of the hill. The collaboration of sounds, the siren, loudspeaker, the Vertibirds, it all makes Nate's head spin, he can almost hear gunfire and screaming in the distance. He can almost feel the weight of an AK in his hands, the sweat on his brow, the ache in his muscles, the burning breath of his own body protesting length of the battle, hours and hours, days and weeks in the trench. His hands begin to tremble as he continues to guide Carolyn along.

"Nora!" Carolyn gasps.

Nate spots his neighbour as she jogs to a stop just around the bend of the hill; her hair is in a mess of black tendrils as it's whipped around by the wind. Her blue sweater is askew, her long pale legs exposed and anything higher is barely covered by the length of her long white t-shirt, barefoot, and totally unprepared as the world for this sudden and alarming event.

"Where's Don?" Carolyn asks as they approach.

"He's already inside, he was doing maintenance all night," She pants, "Carol they're not letting anyone in unless they already signed up, there's a crowd outside the gate, please, _please_ , tell me you signed up!"

"Yes," Carolyn grabs her hand, "Th-this morning, we signed up- it... it feels like it was only minutes ago."

" _We have to go_." Nate urges with a snap, Nora looks to him for an instant, something cold and reserved, before she quickly agrees and takes the lead up the hill.

As they finish the bend, he sees that Nora was right, there's a crowd of people stopped at some sort of gated checkpoint guarded by a man in uniform as well as two soldiers fully suited in T-60 Power Armour wielding large and unforgiving weapons. He notes coldly that the stoic faced man doesn't seem to be at all phased by the terrified pleading of the people huddled together.

"That's absurd, I AM Vault-Tec!" An unwelcome and familiar voice yells over the crowd, and Nate recognizes the ugly yellow trench coat of the salesman that stopped on their doorstep moments ago. It looks like he's not getting into the Vault either anytime soon.

"You're not on the list," The man responds.

"I'm going in!" The Rep insists, "I'm going in and you're not going to-!"

The soldier steps forward and throws a solid punch to the salesman's jaw, throwing him back and tossing his matching yellow fedora into the air, landing at Nate's feet as he stops at the edge of the crowd. The people around them cry out in surprise and outrage as the Rep stumbles back and away.

"You can't do this!" Someone shouts from one of the groups, and a chorus of howling agreements follow. The uniformed man turns to look at the soldier in the Power Armour at his right; the soldier then hoists his large mini-gun upwards and fires a deafening barrage of rounds into the air to silence everyone instantly.

"If you're in the program, step forward!" He shouts, "Otherwise, return home!"

Everything is suddenly eerily quiet, and Nate realizes that the siren has stopped. His gut twists in urgency and he begins to shove his way through the crowd alone, towards the man in uniform that he has no problem having no time to salute to, "We registered this morning."

The man looks over Nate's shoulder to where Carolyn is standing with Shaun in her arms; he then looks to his clip board for what feels like the longest drawn out few seconds in his life, "Infant, adult male, adult female. Ok, go ahead."

"Thank you, sir," Nate takes a stiff and relieved breath, and then motions his wife forward. She carefully passes the people around her, looking at each of them as she does, her face is lined with sorrow and helplessness, Nate reaches out and pulls her the rest of the way, because as he's experienced in the past, it's impossible to save everyone, it's just how the world works.

As they file passed the soldier, he stops Nora as she tries to follow, "You're not with them."

The woman's eyes go wide with panic, "Wait, my husband is working maintenance in the vault!"

"We're going to need to confirm that, Ma'am, please step back." He pushes her back behind the gate and into the crowd already doomed. Nate knows then that she's not going to make it in with them, and the look on her face tells her that she knows it too.

Nora catches Nate's eye, something in her face goes slack into a sorrowful expression of acceptance. Just like that, he feels like he's known her for years, and the silent communication between them is as clear as day.

"Wait, no!" Carolyn calls out, trying to pull herself back towards the gate, back to her best friend, "Nora!"

Nate reaches out and grabs Carolyn, gathering her up in his arms as she struggles. She tries to push herself away, to get loose, but he's not letting her go, "Let her in, her husband is in the Vault, please, Nora!"

Another soldier waits at the top of the slope, motioning them forward, and Nate starts to jog with the weight of his wife and son in his arms, burning muscles he hasn't used in what feels like years, but he's not letting go, not even as Carolyn's protest dies down into shocked gasps still turned and outstretched over his shoulder, barely heard through the new sounds around them, soldiers shouting orders into radios, the mechanical hum of equipment, another Vertibird flying overhead, and the wind bursting clouds of dust and leaves in small twisting storms.

Nate feels like he's suddenly placed back into the midst of a military camp, it looks like everyone here has been set up for hours, they knew what was coming long before the news report came through. How did they not hear the military land on their doorstep this morning?

The soldier leading them forward points to a small crown of people standing on some kind of metal platform in the open area overlooking the entire neighbourhood, "Step on the platform, in the center!"

Nate quickly races up to join the crowd, eyes scanning the distant horizon looking for planes, waiting to see the bright orange flare of the nuclear fire just waiting for them. He holds Carolyn still in his arms, the adrenaline pumping through his system is allowing his body to support the weight without much protest on the matter. That and he's afraid she'll try and go back if he lets her go.

"We're almost there," He assures her, looking down to the face of his son, eyes large and blue with alarm, but he hasn't cried at all. _Calm in the center of the storm, that's my boy._

Carolyn is shaking, her eyes pooled and shiny with tears, "We just left her there..."

Nate hesitates, he knows what she really means, that _he_ is the one who left Nora there. He knows that Nora wanted Carolyn safe, and that's what she'd told him to do in that silent moment of eye contact, keep her safe. He knows Nora doesn't like him much; no doubt she's seen the worst of his relationship before it had the chance to get better, but she knows he loves his wife, and he's willing to do whatever it takes, including leaving everyone else behind.

"It's going to be okay, just focus on Shaun," He forces himself to grin, "Look at him, look how calm he is, we should do this more often!"

Carolyn slowly looks down to their son, adjusting her hold and pulling his small blue cap on a little snugger, "Hey, sweetie," She coos wetly, "...big tough guy, you don't cry over anything but food and a wet diaper do you?"

She chuckles as the infant looks up to his mother with a gummy grin and giggles. Nate leans over and presses a kiss to the top of her head, "We're going to be okay, I lov-"

The air is suddenly filled with an impossibly bright light; a violent vibration that forces Nate to his knee, his back is warmed by something far hotter than the sun. Carolyn gasps aloud and turns to see, but Nate forces her head down, "Close your eyes!" He doesn't need to see what just landed to know what it is, his shadow burns black and clear on the metal at his feet, he looks to his right and see's the distant trees being torn forward by the shockwave approaching faster than a full speed carrier.

Men at the controls shout frantically to lower the platform; the metal rumbles again under his feet as they slowly begin to descend, far too slowly, they're not going to make it. No one is.

The aftershock finally hits them, knocking him them all down on the platform only a meter underground. A billow of wind roars above, drowning out the cries of those around him and those above with nowhere to go. Nate braces over his wife and child like a shield and everyone is encapsulated by the thick darkness that follows the overhead door sealing shut and cutting off every sound. The silence that follows is terrifying, almost so stark that he can hear his blood rushing in violent pulses through his body. The mechanical hum of the platform coming to a stop in the light signals a universal numbness that takes over everyone as they takes several moments to gather themselves back up.

No one says a word, not even as the man claiming to be the 'Overseer' addresses them with a misplaced sense of friendly hospitality, sounding much like the sales Rep that signed them up only this morning. Nate had been such an ass to him, if Carolyn hadn't been there, he would have sent him off without batting an eye, and he'd be as dead as everyone above ground. Everyone he'd ever known in a world that he would never see again.

They walk in a quiet and hesitant group, Nate keeps his arm around Carolyn as they make their way forward and up a set of stairs, through an impossibly large and thick gear shaped Vault door, picturesque to the images in the pamphlets they get with the mail. Nate would toss them in the trash; barely look at them with anything other than distain. If he'd known that one of these Vaults would be the source of his family's salvation, maybe he would have taken more care to research and be prepared for the apparent inevitability. But no one, not even a soldier, expects that something like this would happen in their life, it always happens to someone else, someone he'd see on TV that he could feel sympathy for and be thankful that nothing like that ever happened to him.

As they cross the bridge and step through the small gate, they're greeted by more Vault-Tec employee's who act cheerful and totally oblivious to what's happening above them. Nate finds himself hating them for it and maybe it's because they're all so eager to forget and focus on being the lucky few who've been spared. Maybe Nate wishes he could be happy he and his family survived, but all he can think about is the futility of it all. Nothing he did on the field did any good, and just as history taught them, people are going to destroy each other and everything with them. Mutually Assured Destruction, once a joke is now a painful reality.

He's handed something, a package with something soft inside, what looks like some kind of uniform, the same thing everyone in the Vault is already wearing. A snug blue and yellow jumpsuit, he already dreads what kind of boarding school system they have in store with keeping everyone living peacefully underground for however long it takes. Nate was taught about the true devastation one of those bombs could cause, how it obliterates at short range, and sickens those at long range. He can still feel the heat on his back like mild sunburn, anyone closer would have caught fire as instantly as the shockwave would have killed them. Everything boiling seconds before being blown away like ash, even if they did eventually make it back above ground, nothing would be the same.

Images of green grass pour into his mind, a field back home with his family. His young son holding a catcher's mitt far too big for his hand and tossing a baseball to him just too short, Nate dramatically diving to catch it, his son laughing at the grass stains on his shirt. Carolyn sitting close by on a blanket with a book watching them as Nate picks up Shaun and tosses him in the air, catching him with the shrill laughter of a toddler. Everything that Nate used to think about; being the kind of father that he didn't have... it's all going to change.

They follow a doctor down a long hallway, what looks like underground military barracks, Nate notices the machines through the windows they pass, nothing he was familiar with, nothing he was sure about. People are climbing into them, for what reason, he doesn't know, but he certainly doesn't like it.

"...one of our most advanced facilities, not that the others aren't great, mind you" The scientist finishes a sentence that Nate had tuned out a while ago.

"How long will we be down here?" Carolyn's voice is thick with grief, tired.

"Oh, we'll be going over all that in orientation. Just a few medical items we have to get through first."

Nate isn't sure he wants to know what kind. Everything about Vault-Tec is an unknown to him, all he knows is that they're scientifically advanced and for good or worse, they're going to be controlling the next aspect of everyone lives. Nate really had no other choice than to trust them.

The room next to the first is also filled with less than a dozen more of those large pod-like machines. A few more of those scientists linger about, talking to some of Nate's nameless neighbours already dressed in those ridiculous suits. He and Carolyn are directed to two pods on the end that are open and unoccupied, directly across from each other. They're both directed to put their suits on before entering the chambers.

It has to at least be better than walking round barefoot in pyjama pants.

With that in mind, he quickly sheds them and pulls the Vault suit on, it wraps tight around his body, not like anything he's worn before, and it makes his post-war comfort belly stand out. He tugs on the sleeves and then the thighs with a grimace, it's hugging parts of him that were never meant to be hugged, he's sure this is a cheap one size fits all genre of clothing. He catches Carolyn staring at him with a kind of half-amused smirk; he wordlessly opens his arms in a mock pose as if to show off. She only shakes her head and then walks over to hand Shaun off so she can do the same.

She first pulls it up by the legs and then reaching back to unzip her dress to continue. Nate looks over to the scientist who'd guided them in; the man catches his eye after watching Carolyn intently, and then turns himself away with an embarrassed shuffle. Nate looks down to his son, making sure he's all snug and comfortable in his wrap. What he'd called a baby burrito at some point, he still hasn't make a sound, but he does look up at Nate with his large and wondrous eyes.

When Carolyn finishes, she reaches over to take Shaun back, but the infant begins to squirm and fuss. She hesitates and looks up to Nate a little unsure. He nods a little and smiles at her, "I'll hang onto him. It's okay."

She only smiles and quickly brushes the top of Shaun's tiny hand before she steps towards the open pod across from his.

"All done?" The scientist asks without expecting an answer and then motions to Carolyn's pod, "Just step inside and get comfortable."

Nate looks at his wife, wanting to reach out to her before they're separated, overwhelmed by the looming sense that this is some kind of goodbye. He passes it off as nothing but anxiety following what had happened, everything seems to be running smoothly, everyone being so accommodating and friendly. It might all just be Nate's reaction, trying to keep alert to any further threats, but what if this is it? What if after this, there's no more reason to be afraid? This could be the start of something peaceful and he's trying to distrust every step forward.

The scientist steps into Nate's view as the large machine closes around him, "The Pod with decontaminate and depressurize you before we head deeper into the Vault. Just relax."

Nate tries to do just that, trying to offer some kind of trust, but his heart is thundering in his chest. The cushion at his back feels numb and cold, the only thing he can think of to calm him, is to look at his son lying calmly in his arms. He feels like he can emphasise, take note from his son that nothing can be bad as it seems.

" _Sequence initializing,_ " The pod announces, " _Occupant vitals, normal_."

Nate lays his head back and breathes deep to calm himself.

" _Procedure complete_ ," The voice continues, but the sudden haze the clouds Nate's mind throws him into alarm, a gripping cold that seizes his body still and quickly pulls him into unconsciousness is marked by the slow declining countdown, " _In 5... 4... 3... 2..._ "

" _Manual override initiated. Cryogenic stasis suspended_."

Nate's eyes shoot open and he gasps in urgency, lungs compressing against the merciless and cold air around him. He coughs are violent, trying to catch his haggard breath as he hears the cries of his son suddenly erupt from his own tiny contorted gasps. He holds Shaun close, all he can think of to do is rub the blanket in an attempt to warm him against the chill.

His head inclines to see two people standing in the dark at the foot of the open pod, one dressed in a full white hazmat suit, and the other in something causal and worn, his shoulder wrapped in some kind of partial white metal armour.

"Is it over?" He chokes out, but more urgent questions are begging for his attention, why did they put him to sleep? Where is Carolyn? What's going on? Who the fuck are these people?!

"Almost," The gruff man with the armour answers, "Everything is going to be fine."

Nate watches the man carefully, because he's not in uniform, he doesn't look like he belongs down in the Vault. Did they open the doors already? How long have they been asleep?

"Come here," The person in the hazmat suit, who sounds like a woman, reaches out gently to the wailing bundle in Nate's arms, "Come here, baby."

" _I've got him_ ," He snaps and turns away from her grasp with aching muscles. She only follows and grips the ends of the blanket, pulling Shaun away from him without regards to gentleness or consent. It becomes clear to him that they're not here to help when the man pulls out a large silver magnum and points it directly to Nate's chest.

"Let the boy go," The man states, "I'm only gonna tell you once."

Fear grips him like the cold claw of the machine all over again and he snarls in retaliation, " _I'm not giving you Shaun!_ "

A single shot rings in the air like a firework, echoing sharp in the hollow metallic halls of the Vault, it happens not even the instant his voice finishes the protest. A piercing white hot pain rips through the left side of his chest, he doesn't even realize he'd let Shaun slip through his fingers until he sees the woman bobbing the infant to calm him, stepping away from the machine as Nate reaches out in shock to his son. His hand is dripping with his own warm blood, he gasps, coughing scarlet ooze from his punctured lung and slumps back against the cushions with spotting vision.

"Goddammit!" The man curses, "Get the kid out of here, and let's go."

The pod closes back up in an instant; Nate's strangling fear is empowering him, fuelling him with adrenaline that pounds loud in his ears. His son is being stolen, he needs to get out, and he needs to go after them. He gurgles, pressing both hands against the door, clearing his throat of more blood, too much blood, he can feel it running down the suit and can see it pooling at his foot. He's going to die.

"No-!" He gasps, pressing a hand to the glass; it only smears red over his view of outside, "Sh-!"

He can't catch his breath, he's inhaling blood, he's losing consciousness, and he can't get out of the pod with all of his energy being sucked out by the wound and by the pod reaching those increased freezing temperatures once again. Against his will, his heavy body slumps and he's pulled back into the haze of unconsciousness, fading faster than the pod could refreeze him.

" _Cryogenic sequence reinitialized._ "


	2. The Nightmare

Full body numbness awaits Carolyn as she slowly blinks into consciousness, cold and consuming like an unforgiving winter frost. Her limbs ache with the simplest movement, a grip of her fist, and a full body shift in an instinctual need to relief the discomfort. In a single sharp breath, the beginnings of a hard yawn, the crisp and stale air catches in her lungs like noxious smoke, her chest feels constricted, crushed with an invisible force. Her initial breath is exhaled in rejection, coughing as she tries to gulp mouthfuls of oxygen that isn't there. The panic sets in, a simultaneous struggle for air and ragged process of trying to recognize her surroundings. She recalls in a general sense what the pod looks like from the outside, only a brief glance through the shock and numbness of trauma that didn't register anything permanent in her memory. The inside is just the same, but she knows where she is, that realization allows her to process what it is that she has to do next. Her arms are weak and almost lifeless at her sides, but all the same she reaches forward, blinking through the blur in her vision, and presses against the pod door, staring out through the frost clouded window to the outside where across from her she sees the pod where she last saw her husband.

Nate, where she saw the pod door open and strangers reach out for her son, taking him from her husband with a single shot to his chest that threw him back against the padded support. It's a haze, like a dream, a nightmare, only a nightmare because nothing that cruel could ever happen in real life, not to her.

Carolyn presses hard against the door, the balls of her jumpsuit boots pressing against the bottom where it lifts up, she kicks with increasing ferocity, with adrenaline fuelled panic, gasping and coughing until finally the crack of ice and the rush of warm air floods the chamber like warm honey and she pushes herself forward to urge the door up. It makes a mechanical hiss, her only support lifts away and she falls forward, tumbling in a heap to the metal floor at the foot of the opening with a painful slap.

Her entire body cramps at once, her air starved lungs try to expand through her racking coughs. The rush of blood pools in her head with in uniform headache that encapsulates her skull with pain. She squeezes her eyes shut, curled in a ball on the bitter flooring trying to concentrate on breathing.

There is a sudden warm hand on her back that startles her immediately, she flinches away from it and the soothing voice that follows, "Hey, hey, it's okay, just breathe."

"Nate?" She gasps hoarsely to address the man's voice, identifying it immediately as her husband flutters hope and joy in her chest until she finds the strength to turn and look at him.

A narrow feminine face, pale and highly contrast to the black both in his narrow eyes and in his hair. It alarms her to see someone so visually different than Nate that she doesn't recognize him at first, but when he smiles light and reassuring, her mind finally clicks. It's Nora's husband, "Don?"

"Yeah..." His answer is solemn.

Carolyn opens her mouth to ask urgent questions she hasn't yet fully formed internally, but she's interrupted by a sickly pleasant and automatic voice that mimics the same tone as the voice in her pod that spoke to her moments before her mind fell to sleep, one she only remembers in a jolt as it speaks overhead.

"Critical failure in Cryogenic Array, all Vault residents must vacate immediately," It echoes across the room to demonstrate its mechanical emptiness, what it says makes no sense to Carolyn, because as far as she knew, the pods were supposed to decontaminate them.

She looks down to her hands, her forearms wrapped in a bright blue and yellow jumpsuit, and focuses in on the sheen of water lying in puddles around her palms. The cold she experienced while in the pod, it was some kind of Cryogenic freezing? Why on earth would Vault-Tec freeze them to take them into the Vault?

Carolyn lurches forward, scrambling to her feet with a sudden urgency at the thought of what effect this is going to have on her husband on her infant son, the effects could permanently damage Shaun's delicate and still developing lungs, he could stop breathing, or choke, his heart might not be able to handle the stress.

"Hey," Don quickly stands with her as she sways with vertigo, "You really shouldn't-"

"Do you know how to-?" Carolyn stumbles over to the pod directly across from the one she'd just come out of, gripping the door with both hands to rest her weakened legs. The glass is frosted over and covered in some kind of dark smear, "You know how to open this?"

He stands stationary, looking at Carolyn with a mixed expression of sorrow and sympathy as he hesitates to answer. Pure and unmitigated fear strikes through Carolyn's heart and she presses for immediacy, "Don!"

Without answering, he quickly marches over to the panel sitting between Nate's pod and the one to its left. A square box with a bright red handle switch that he grabs and pulls downward to lock in place, bracing himself palm down and ducking his head in hesitation as the pod emits a hiss and showers ice flakes at Carolyn feet moments before she backs away.

When Nate comes into view, her pounding heart suddenly comes to an unforgiving halt.

He's laying back against the pod cushioning, his body slumped slightly to the right with a mild bend in his knees, his bright blue matching jumpsuit is covered in a layer of frost not yet melted, his face is slack, hanging down so his brunette bangs hide his eyes from immediate view. Carolyn's gaze drags over, a shock fuelled languid turn of her head that focuses on a wound sitting almost perfectly center on the left side of his chest. Where one would usually see a large red commercial heart painted to symbolize love is now a large oozing deep scarlet chasm flaked in small bits of ice.

And the small white blanketed bundle last in his arms is nowhere to be seen.

Carolyn takes a step back, her foot attempting to hold the weight of her move but failing to follow through and it collapses her right back onto the ground. The haze she had recalled as nothing but a nightmare had not been what she thought, it had been all somehow so horrifyingly real.

She'd witnessed the entire scene, a man and woman had approached Nate's pod, opened it and tried to take her baby from his arms. He'd refused, snarling in protest only moments before the man with the scar had shot him. The gunfire had shocked her ears, ringing in complaint to the sound as the cries of her infant son retreating had slowly come through. She can't recall anything more than the look of the man's face as he's come up to her pod to look in, calling her 'the backup' as though killing Nate had no more adverse effect on him than losing some kind of caged animal.

Breathless, Carolyn folds her arms up like she was holding Shaun against her chest, patting his back to ease air from his stomach after a feeding, the soft, warm, impossibly tiny person so dependent and delicate. Her stomach twists with the sudden awful realization that someone had taken her son, someone opened her husband's pod and shot him dead to do so, people who don't look like Vault-Tec, people from somewhere else.

It's not until Carolyn exhales a sob that she registers how hard she's crying, her nose burning, her throat aching. Her pain is the only sound echoing around her that she can hear, but her moans of denial sound like they're coming from the very room around her. Someone took her baby.

Don stands by the switch to watch in dire confliction, not saying a word. He elects to close the pod door once again to hide the body from her view, as if doing so will somehow help to ease her grief.

"I'm..." He starts to speak but hesitates as if to figure out what he could possibly say to convey his sympathy. Carolyn can't even manage to stop rocking her body, let alone register he's even still in the same room. So with light receding footsteps, he allows her to express her grief in privacy.

For what feels like a long span of time, Carolyn alternates between hoarse cries of painful grief and soft gasping sobs that ease as she holds herself. Eventually after what feels like an hour, she's gently rocking with the roll of her heels as her forearms brace her head while it rests limp against her knees. Tears and snot are drying on her face and a stark shiver from the chill of the room is crawling up her spine without regards to her process. It's not long after she stops making any noise at all that Don comes back into the room.

"Hey," He says gently.

Carolyn's hand is curled up against her head, gripping a handful of hair to ground her mind, but she says nothing to Don and only continues to rock herself with the intent to stay just as she is.

"I, uh... it's safe here for now, I took some time to clear the place out before I woke you up," He motions behind him, "But we can't stay, not for long."

She shakes her head; she doesn't want to think about anything else right now, she wants Don to leave her alone. She's trying so desperately to disassociate from this nightmare, to be somewhere else where nothing bad ever happens, she must have died because this is the closest to hell she can conceive from her own imagination.

Don approaches her after a moment of silence, "Carolyn, I..." He hesitates, "We need to get moving, we can't stay here."

"No," She whimpers.

"Look, we have no idea what kind of trouble we're in right now, or what's going on topside, frankly I don't even know if I want to find out, but we need to get our bearings, okay?"

Carolyn peaks up at him fuelled by irritation and the desire to be left alone, " _What are you talking about?_ "

He shrugs to emphasize his own uncertainty, "Well, I kind of hacked into the Overseers Terminal when I woke up, I only have a relative guess as to how long we've been in here, but according to the records, we _way_ surpassed the mandatory shelter period."

"What?" Carolyn asks, "How long has it been since...?"

"Well, mandatory shelter period is about two hundred days," He explains, "But considering the remains... I think it's been at least a decade, maybe more."

"A _decade_?" Carolyn gasps, "That's impossible, there's no way- we couldn't have been-"

"Hey, we won't know until we get out of here, I mean, I can't carbon date the remains of whoever else here wasn't frozen immediately, I'm not into that kind of science, none of the terminals recorded the passage of time either, I tried that," He rubs his neck, "I'm a lot better with machines, so it's all guesswork."

"We were frozen, _why_?" She demands.

"According to the Overseer logs, they were testing out long term effects of Cryogenic stasis, I guess," He sighs, "Post-bomb drop is kind of a shitty time to experiment if you ask me..."

Her head shakes in disbelief, "Why would Vault-Tec do that?!"

Don speaks plainly, "I don't know."

"But you _worked_ for them," Carolyn accuses with a choke, "Why are _you_ still here and not-?!"

She can't say his name, either of their names, so her outrage falls short. Don doesn't appear to take any offense, but his voice lowers as he speaks.

"Because they froze me too," He admits, "I had no idea what was going on, I was in here doing maintenance on the door controls, I was nowhere near this machinery, I had no idea what they were really doing, I didn't even find out about Nora until I... checked the logs and... she didn't..."

His voice wavers and cracks, unable to finish his sentence as he turns and runs a hand over his face with a wet sniffle. Carolyn suddenly gasps in recollection, "Oh my god..." She covers her mouth in horror, "Oh my god, Don, I... I'm so sorry, she was right behind us and... Everything was happening so fast and the bomb went off... I wanted to help her but-"

"It's okay," He holds up a hand to stop her from continuing, "I know she was always really selfless and... well, we don't even know that surviving the bomb was a good thing, so... silver lining I guess."

Silence erupts between the two, unsure and shaky. Carolyn thoroughly hopes her crawling defence is wrong in implying that Don offered both Nora and Nate's deaths as being something of a good thing. Nothing about either of them dying was anything close to being alright, not even to the ever optimistic mechanic she had the pleasure of getting to know through Nora's loyal friendship.

Carolyn uncurls herself and stands on shaky feet, avoiding the confrontation eagerly waiting to erupt; she can't afford to accuse Don of something like that when he may be the only person who can help her, "Did the computers mention a baby?"

"A bab-?" Don's face suddenly melts from confusion into dismay, "Oh shit, did Nate...?"

"Don," She urges, "Did they mention taking a baby out of one of the pods?"

He shakes his head, "No, no... all the records stop sometime after the mandatory shelter period ends, and that's when I suspect everyone down here died of... whatever happened. Odds are it wasn't Vault-Tec who... look, I'm sorry Carol."

She quickly nods, blinking back a new onslaught of tears. She doesn't know if she should be relived or horrified that it wasn't Vault-Tec after all. On one hand, she knows there's still a chance her son is alive; on the other hand, she has no idea who took him and why, "Okay... what do we do now?"

"Well... to start, I found a Pip-Boy in one of the bathrooms, a little dusty, but it works, it should be able to open the Vault door. I found it on one of the bodies," He smiles a little hesitantly, "All of the flesh decomposed and left the skeletons behind, so it's safe to wear. I'm sure."

Carolyn's stomach twists at the image Don painted for her. A reaction that beckons a cold rock to drop right into her throat, "Is there a bathroom around?"

"Yeah," He doesn't register her discomfort, only motions her to follow, "The plumbing still works pretty well, but the water tastes a little stale and metallic, as you can imagine, come on."

Carolyn follows Don all the way passed the rest of the pods, glancing through the windows of some to see most of them still occupied, not a sound of life coming from any of them. Silently she wonders how it is that both her pod and Don's managed to survive longer than theirs. Perhaps she ought to think carefully of who she's supposed to trust, as it stands, she should not have trusted Vault-Tec at all.

At the door, she pauses and glances back over her shoulder to Nate's pod. She hesitates; a new deep encircling fear twists around in her stomach like an eel. She wants to make some kind of remembrance, to properly mourn, to bury him in a grave with his uniform and flag. There's no time, not while her son is missing. So, Instead of sending last thoughts, making any silent prayers or promises, she continues to follow Don.

Don brings her through what remains of the Vault, parts she hadn't seen initially, and leads her to the Overseer's office. The Vault isn't nearly as large as what she'd expected to see, not like those advertized by Vault-Tec. It looks like it was never meant to hold more than a dozen people. This was all premeditated to an extent that she's afraid to consider.

Everything is abandoned, the lights hang almost too dim to be of much help, and the supplies look to have been plundered until there was nothing but empty tin cans and bottles remaining. They pass a cafeteria, a bunk room, a few offhand offices and storage rooms. On the way, she steels herself to step over the still clothed forms of dull grey skeletons that litter the ground at varying points, sprawled out in death. Were they killed, or did they die? Both considerations are horrifying in their way, and by the time they make it to the Overseers ensuite bedroom and personal bathroom, Carolyn rushes to vomit into the toilet.

Nothing but stomach acid, she quietly recalls not yet having the chance to eat breakfast the morning of the bomb drop, not a single thing. Much to her gratification, Don is right about the plumbing. But the water tastes nothing but sweet on her tongue as he washes the acidity from her mouth. Her eyes itch however, from the contacts she'd put in during her beauty regiment. Her glasses, small, delicate, and pretty sat abandoned on her bedside table that very morning. Hesitantly, she makes the decision to remove them, leaving them on the rim of the sink. She isn't supposed to wear them for more than twelve hours at a time. Considering she has nothing to store them in and she has no idea what to expect at the end of the day, it's impractical to hang on to them.

Using the gritty mirror stained with age, she stares at her tired reflection. She looks older, greyish almost even though she hasn't physically aged. Her cheeks and eyes are blotched red from her earlier grief; her hair hangs in damp blonde clumps on either sides of her jaw and in her face. It feels like hours ago that she was looking into the mirror to carefully apply her makeup and scrunch her soft curls to hold the shape, as bright as her wedding day, smiling and deciding to wear her favourite dress.

Carolyn doesn't smile now; instead she reaches out with an elbow and strikes the center of her reflection. The mirror shatters, showering glass on the ground and into the sink, pooling around the drain. When she looks down at the reflective shards, she sees the disembodied and chaotic reflection of her eyes and face, something, she admits, that is far more appropriate to her state.

She leaves the bathroom to see where Don had run off to.

The Overseer's desk is void of much, but she does find a large and rather unattractive pair of glasses. Testing her luck, she puts them on and blinks into the prescription, able to make out the sign sitting across the room with relative ease. They're not quite as strong as hers, and the left side is a little weaker than the right, but she counts her blessings in the regards that they could belong to someone far sighted instead.

She leans on the desk to wait for Don, looking down at the skeleton clad in a while coat as he lays back on the over turned chair with his arms outstretched. Carolyn finds depersonalization quite easy, firstly considering his lack of human features to personalize with, secondly the fact that this man was at one point in charge of the experiment that killed almost everyone in the pods. He may even have had something to do with her baby being taken from her husband's arms. If she didn't have any respect for the dead, she may have already kicked the skull right off the neck bone.

After a few minutes, Don walks into the office through the door on the opposite end of the room, "Hey, I figured out how to open the Vault door, are you ready?"

Carolyn answers with a mild nod; though she doesn't know how to be ready for something so incredibly unexpected. If someone were to ask her yesterday if she were ready when the bombs dropped, she would have dismissed it as something that would never happen as long as she was living in the ever peaceful Sanctuary Hills.

Standing side by side at the base of the central door control consol, Don and Carolyn stare up at the gear shaped Vault door with encumbering uncertainty as it looms so massive and foreboding, sealed in place for god knows how long, and painted with the number '111' just like on the backs of their jumpsuits.

"What do you think we'll find?" Carolyn asks, even though in her mind she's picturing fire and black charred earth crunching lifeless under their feet.

"If we're lucky," Don responds, "People."

"And... if we're unlucky?"

Don looks down at her, "Something a little bigger than giant cockroaches..."

Carolyn tenses; she saw the bodies of those giant bugs, as large as small dogs, lying around in a freshly crunched muck as she was lead through the Vault hallways. A spider in the shower was her worst nightmare most days; however, what she saw when Nate's pod opened...

"Hey," He places a hand on her shoulder, "You know what? Don't worry about what we'll find, I'm a solider remember? I'll keep you safe."

Carolyn tries to smile at his attempt to reassure her, but cannot find the strength to do so.

"Together?" He offers.

She nods, comforted in the fact that neither of them had to do this alone, but the intruding thought that Don may have had anything to do with this is still on her mind, and the idea that she may at one point need to get away from him and continue on alone scares the hell out of her.

Don pulls a small device with a connected cord and plugs it into the small component on the left side of the control consol, with a glance to his Pip-Boy, the clear plastic box sitting over the large red button pops open. After Don plugs the device back, he huffs and rolls his head on preparation, "Here goes."

Carolyn sucks in a sharp breath as he pounds the bright red button, the lights overhead suddenly dim as orange lights flash and spiral to match the Vault alarm that announces the progression. The two of them jump away from the consol in surprise as the large hanging engine-like machine jerks with power and rolls forward on rails towards the large steel Vault door. It fits seamlessly into the middle and engages the locks, pulling them inward to release the door from its hold. The machine begins to pull the door from the wall and Carolyn and Don cover their ears as the screech of metal on metal fills the room. Sparks from the painfully shrill grinding fly in offshoot directions, air suction pulls loose papers, dust, and debris into the room behind the door, and finally the machine pulls right and rolls the large steel gear aside to expose the bright light of the opening.

They watch as the ramp extends to create a bridge between the gap caused by the height of the door and the deep lower floor flooded with water only half a meter beneath. The other end drops to offer a 45 degree ramp, and finally the gate unlocks and signals the end of the event.

The room is suddenly very quiet again, this time thankfully so. Carolyn wasn't expecting it to be that loud or extravagant; Don however, wiggles a finger in his ear and adjusts his jaw to compensate the ringing in his head, "Wow, it wasn't that loud when we tested it, but little bit of rust can have that effect, I guess."

Without another word, they skirt the rails and walk across the ramp into the next room where the large gear shaped elevator lowers to the base ready to carry them topside. They step onto the platform and stand rigid as it begins to slowly ascend to the surface, where anything could be waiting for them, something good, or something bad, Carolyn tries not to think of exactly what.

No matter what's waiting for her up there, she needs to know what happened to her son, if he ends up being alive like she hopes to God he is, she's going to get him back no matter what she has to do.


	3. What the Luck?

Don dreamt of how the earth shook under the cataclysm of the nuclear bombs, a hellfire that burned everything into char and a windstorm that tossed it about into forgotten ash, the air siren that sounded overhead like a distant echo was not the usual military classification as he would expect, but a hard alarm like a malfunction. When his body jerked back into consciousness, his eyes snapping open in a blurry haze, he found himself unable to catch his breath. He shivers violently from the total encapsulating chill, fingers trembling as he reaches up with numb and aching limbs to brace himself on the edges of his cot. Instead of touching the canvas wrapped and metal framed military bunk like he expected, his hands hit the hard metal and plastic of something so unexpected it jerks him from his post nightmare haze to the stark reality of his situation with immediate recollection.

His chest heaves with no relief as he twists himself around to survey his confinements in alarm; the panic of his situation begins to set in; whatever this was supposed to be, from what he remembered being told upon his entry into the pod, it had been a lie. Decontamination, depressurization, he should have known, he'd been frozen.

The nagging question of why and for how long isn't on the top of his list of immediate concerns considering he can't breathe. Life support must have failed, or maybe there was a loss of power, he could have been breathing recycled air for hours now, if he doesn't find a way out right now, he'll suffocate before finding any answers.

With limbs still tingling and numb from the cold, Don elects to press his hands against the pod door and push, testing the give. Gaining no result, he then starts to kick at it with his legs still stiff. The adrenaline kick-starts his system like the roar of a fine motor, his brain begins to work in overtime, settling into the familiar stressed environment just like it had back when he'd been enlisted. He begins measuring options, considering actions, figuring out how to escape before he passes out from asphyxiation.

From what he recalled seeing before being frozen, the pod opened from the bottom and lifted up on a pivot above his head, he just needs the right application of pressure and it should give way if only enough for oxygen to enter. All he needs are those precious extra seconds.

Don slides down the plush cushions that had been supporting his back, folding himself like a lawn chair to sit on the bottom of the pod where his feet had been, pressing the boots of his Vault suit against the door frame, and pushing out with the pressure of his body constricting in the tiny space. His head starts to swell and a headache pierces through his temples in harsh protest, but still he keeps pushing, alternating between hard kicks and full body pressure until black spots begin to cloud his vision. He doesn't feel the door give a single inch and in seconds, his fight starts to redirect to terror.

His sharp grunts hiss through his teeth, _come on. COME ON!_

One well placed kick on the bottom left hand corner rewards him with an audible crunch, one that steals his attention as either the crack of ice, or of plastic. Either way it's progress. He quickly shifts 45o and kicks both feet at the corner, shoving his boots on the door like he were trying to bounce on a tiny trampoline at the carnival. Once, twice, and CRACK; on the third strike, another snap of ice is followed by the hiss of air flooding into his compartment.

Don arches down in victory and overwhelming relief to drink the small intake of oxygen like he was dying of thirst, what tastes and feels like warm honey. Technically he _had_ been dying, of _oxygen_ thirst, but whatever. Metaphors.

He doesn't take more than a few seconds to enjoy it, however, his lungs rejecting any deep breath he tries to take, so instead he takes a mouthful and leans back to brace against the pod cushion and continue kicking against the weak point.

With the breach already ensured, the door begins to slowly give way, inch by inch. The ice crusted around the seal snaps and crumbles under his continuous blows until he kicks enough space to slip through. His lean body steps down and he slides sideways out of the crack, keeping his head down and peaking around the slightly protruding door to glance both ways down the hall. If anyone was around, they would have heard him, and would be here soon enough. After five minutes of tense silence, he carefully steps out into the hall of pods, his feet slapping against half inch deep puddles of water gathered around the floor and at the base of the pods, dripping from the pipes overhead, and ice cold to the touch.

Don takes a moment to slowly take deeper breaths, allowing his lungs to recover from the trauma, allowing _himself_ to recover too, and to stop trembling with the last bits of adrenaline because he came really damn close to suffocating in his would-be coffin. In fact, he'd been so relieved to breathe again, that he hadn't noticed how stale and metallic the air really tasted until he realizes its sitting like blood on his tongue. Old machine with the tang of burnt electrical wire, not at all something stasis pods should smell like, it sits like rot in his gut that jerks with the sudden awareness of the machines at his sides not making much sound at all, they should be humming with life, or making some kind of sound to indicate they were functioning at all.

It's so silent that Don can hear his every laboured exhale.

Suddenly an alarm blares overhead, scaring the crap out of him like a cheesy horror movie jump scare. It's the same one that woke him from his dream only moments ago, _Critical failure in Cryogenic Array. All Vault residents must vacate immediately._

Cryogenic, yep, if the frost melting off of the ends of his crisp locks of hair weren't indicators enough; his nose hairs are all still stuck together. That wasn't much of a surprise; he figured that out pretty quickly.

Though, now that he wasn't in the immediate danger of suffocation, he has the opportunity to ponder WHY IN THE _HELL_ VAULT-TEC WOULD FREEZE EVERYONE! If they wanted to preserve everyone for the long haul, then why the hell would they lie about it? God knows how long everyone's been out, this could end up being some kind of freaky sci-fi where everyone wakes up in a dead zone and there are monsters in the Vault trying to kill them all. Some post-apocalyptic mutation turning everyone into zombies, good lord, and he could be the only left to fight them off!

He looks down the row of pods as they sit silent and dark, the first semi-horrifying thought of mutation and zombies is replaced by the sudden realization that if he woke up due to the error and had to kick his way out to survive, then everyone else could be going through the same thing. They could all be dying right now and he's thinking about sci-fi bullshit.

Swinging around, he goes to the first pod to his left, glass fogged with ice, and tries to open the door with the red handle switch. Flipping it up, it makes an error sound denying the command. Don curses aloud and goes to the next pod, the windows frosted over to hide the faces of their occupants, and it also denies him access.

Don spots the wall terminal at the end of the hall and begins to stumble-jog as fast as his legs will let him with their slowly returning strength. If he can hack the terminal, he can open all pod doors at once. He quickly logs in with his credentials, technically he had been an employee if only to do maintenance on the Vault door, and he checks the status of every individual pod. What he finds, much to his dismay, is that they all proved to be already totally offline, their occupants deceased for who knows how long.

Somehow, he'd been the only one to survive the ordeal. Somehow...

The system malfunction must have left his life support on for a little longer, leaving the rest to die from suffocation while he had the opportunity to escape. It was his training that saved him, and it was probably his training that alerted him to the system malfunction that woke him up. His brains triggered alarm system that woke him up at exactly 0600 every morning, and the same one that usually didn't allow him a good night's sleep. So maybe he's not so thankful for the PTSD, but if it hadn't been for that, he could be dead right now, hell, maybe he is and his consciousness is just the ghost of his dead suffocated body.

Neither thought gave him any kind of extended comfort.

Don leans against the terminal keyboard for support, trying to slow his racing heart beat. He knew these people by name, his neighbours; they weren't nameless casualties like those from the war. This was Vault-Tec's fault, all of it. He just can't fathom why they would go through with something like this in times of war, but really, if you consider it objectively, this would be the perfect time to lure a group of innocent people into a trap when they're fleeing from danger into what they think is total safety.

He turns and quickly limps back down the hall, pausing at his forced open pod and kicking the door shut with a violent snap, it's still humming with life barely sustained, his coffin. He continues forward and through the door out of the pod room, there were more people in here somewhere, maybe they were still alive, being on a separate electrical grid. If he were any kind of lucky, which he assumes at this point he is, there would be more people alive and he wouldn't have to face this nightmare alone.

To his right, turning down the hall towards the second door closed beside glass windows revealing another room full of Pods, even more than the previous, he quickly enters and stops to listen for any sign of life. What he spots immediately is a single pod near the end with an overhead light, a low hum of machinery just like his. The rest of the pods are as dark and lifeless as the others. His hope soars, quickly racing to the pod door and peering in to see who'd been lucky enough to survive.

Inside, through the light frost of ice, he sees a blonde woman he immediately recognizes as Carolyn Robertson, his neighbour and Nora's best friend. She looks to be defrosting, but still unconscious. If the air runs out while she's still in there, she could have a seriously rude wake up call.

Suddenly it hits him like a rock hard punch to the gut, it freezes him on the spot with horror, and his eyes jolt to the terminal sitting at the end of the hall blinking with idle life.

Nora.

Eyes set on the screen; he hobbles up the few stairs and trips, almost smacking his face on the keyboard when he grips it for support, not quite recovering from the fall before he starts to frantically log in his credentials, failing once and then twice with a curse, third time's the charm as the terminal pings pleasantly.

Quickly he checks Carolyn's pod first, making sure he has time, and notes that while she is still alive, her oxygen is going to run out in another half an hour maybe, he needs to get her out of there as soon as he knows it's safe, because honestly, who knows what kind of shit is running around in the empty Vault halls, if they're even empty, mutated zombies and all.

Next he checks the list of names all assigned to the Cryo pods, one by one his anticipation spikes until he reads the final name and his hope crashes, sending numbness straight to his knees that threaten his total collapse.

Nora didn't even make it into the Vault.

"Fuck," His voice is hoarse, and feels foreign in the pod hall. His hand comes up to press against his face, a cool hand bringing relief to his scolding eyes, burning with tears.

She must have stayed back to make sure the Robertson's made it into the Vault with her, something with her verification must have stopped her at the gate. Technically neither of them filled out the Vault residence sheet, but because of his maintenance service, they were going to be let in as a VIP class like the security. With all the chaos of everything happening all at once, when the Military showed up at his front door to take him in, he thought it was routine, maybe even an evacuation test like a fire alarm. He had no idea that the bombs were going to fall later that very morning.

 _Critical failure in Cryogenic Array. All Vault residents must vacate immediately._

Don jerks himself up at the alarm again, pulled back into reality from his grief. He inhales quickly and shoves his sorrow aside for the moment, giving himself a shake and wiping his face of a mixture of sweat and water. No use breaking down now, Donny boy, the day is just getting started. You can break down after code FUBAR.

He runs through the terminal again with a clearer head, noting that everyone except Carolyn had died at some point of the critical failure, even her husband. Don stares at his name for a few minutes, not quite ushering a glare, but narrowing his eyes in mild non-committal contempt. He never liked him, as much as he tried, Nate didn't give him much of a chance in the first place, forget about trying to win his favour back after the fight they had. He's not sure how Carolyn is going to take it; he's totally unprepared to aid her in her grief when he doesn't even want to bring his own back to surface.

Logging out of the terminal, he decides to first make some rounds to ensure that the Vault is safe to bring a civilian into. He pats her pod as he walks by and readies himself for anything, mutated zombies being the worst case scenario.

Turns out, it only takes him about fifteen minutes. Don is relatively surprised at how incredibly small the entire Vault is, there's not much around excluding a reactor room, a kitchen, and a bunk room for about maybe a dozen people. Those dozen people being only skeletal remnants of being dead for a LONG TIME, Don continues to find bodies lying in different areas and positions of fight, still wearing the tattered clothes of their occupation, a lot of doctors, and security. And everything has been ransacked for supplies; nothing but coffee cups and beer bottles are left.

During his rounds, he doesn't see any signs of there being a deeper end of the Vault like he'd been told. There's no room for anyone to live, Vault-Tec wasn't going to let anyone out at any point of the freezing. What the hell is this?!

The only living things that he could find were the pug sized cockroaches he had to crack open with an old police baton he'd found in the bunk room, lucky for him bugs didn't make him squeamish. Though, to see bugs that size made him worry about the surface, cockroaches didn't get that big because they drank their milk. There may be a small radiation leak somewhere near the entrance that he needs to worry about.

When he reaches the Overseers office, he notes that the only supplies worth having seem to be in this very room. That and his skeleton sitting on the chair, thrown back onto the ground with his arms spread eagle, harbours a large gaping bullet hole in the forehead of his bald skull. Don decides that there's nothing much else to do besides scavenge, which shouldn't take long considering this overseer apparently hoarded anything useful.

He piles his loot on the desk to take inventory. Two 10mm pistols, three cartridges of matching bullets, three Stimpacks, two police batons, a Pip-boy wrist computer, and a large intimidating freeze ray gun of some kind that he can't break out of his container in the weapons gate, he'll try for that again later.

Initializing the Pip-boy, he gets an immediate show of his vitals and a local map that really brings to view the compactness of the Vault. He brings his attention to the built in Geiger counter, which he could use to test if there's any leaking radiation around. Bringing a loaded pistol with him, he does another set of rounds, holding the computer up to the piping, checking the seals in the walls, and then the bodies of the dead roaches. Nothing seems to be giving off any radiation at all save for the miniscule bits of non-lethal amounts coming off the roaches, that's what worries him though, if there's enough radiation to effect these bugs to such a degree, then there may be too much radiation on the surface to survive. They would need to stay underground for a long time, maybe even refreeze themselves for the long haul if Don could fix the pods.

Because even though the plumbing still works pretty well, he doubts the nutritional value of giant roasted cockroaches.

He wanders back to the overseer's office; during his investigation he found three more cartridges of 10mm ammunition, more than enough to supply the both of them in case they needed to defend themselves. It's when he gets back that he looks to the terminal sitting on the desk still blinking with power.

Don steps over the corpse and begins his hacking attempt to break into the computer, confident that it would hold answer's he'd need to make an executive decision. What he finds confirms his fears of experimentation, according to the logs, the Vault was never supposed to be used as any kind of second sanctuary or safe haven for those lucky enough to survive the bomb drop. The Vault was built and supplied by Vault-Tec to research the long term effects of Cryogenic stasis.

Don runs a hand over his forehead and pushes his inky bags from his face, plastered with sweat and still damp from the freeze. He remembers being called by Vault-Tec, requested to work for them temporarily being that he was the only engineer in the immediate vicinity of the Vault, it seemed like a good way to make a little extra money before he could file out into the working world like a good little monotonous labourer drone. He had considered working local, fixing up anything robotic for his neighbours, maybe buying the garage in Red Rocket to open his own little workshop. His dreams for a quiet life surrounded by machinery can apparently go suck a big one thanks to Vault-Tec, maybe even thanks to him. They might not have been able to fix the Vault door without him, then where would everyone be?

Only difference that would have made is two more casualties.

Don shakes away the guilty contempt and continues to read, it looks like the mandatory two hundred day shelter period had passed when the overseer stopped logging in. Even before that he speaks of locking himself away, of possible mutiny, selfishness breeds selfishness after all. Though the end of his logs would give Don a good starting point to figuring out how long they've been under here, assuming that's when everyone started dying.

So, either everyone killed each other in a psychotic frenzy, or everyone starved to death. Either way, it's only a few weeks difference. That is if no one resorted to cannibalism. Even so, a few months more for the last person standing, which definitely isn't the gentleman sprawled out at his feet? He considers how all the bodies seem to be at the same stage of decomposition, that being, that they're all void of any skin tissue, organs, hair, or muscle. Even the bones look dry, and have turned into a dingy grey color. Total decomposition was achieved without being exposed to any of the outside elements, no sun, no rain, no animals (aside from the cockroaches, though he doubts they're carnivorous).

Generally, a fully clothed body buried in a coffin takes about eight to twelve years to decompose, that is if no bugs get in to help the process along, and judging from the cryo array malfunction, what looked to be brand new machinery, Don estimates that it's taken at least twenty years for everything to break down naturally with no one around to perform routine maintenance. If that's true, then the relative danger of immediate radiation poisoning and/or death wouldn't be a problem. Well, shouldn't. Who knows what else they dropped in those bombs.

Now that he's fairly certain the Vault is safe for his single fellow survivor, he leaves his loot on the desk and goes back to the first Cryo chamber to let Carolyn out of stasis. On the way there, he tries to think of how exactly he's going to go about explaining the situation to her, on top of her husband being dead, she's in the same boat he is. So far he thinks he's doing alright all things considered, but he's a soldier, he's been through similar situations of stress and danger (not that being frozen is on his list of SNAFU). She's a civilian, and she'll most likely be crying. He's no good when women cry.

The first rays of sun that beam through the topside entrance as it splits open are so powerful that Don has to shield his eyes, his retina aching deep behind his clasped eyelids in total protest. He fears those few adjusting seconds of total blindness, can't see if their surroundings are hostile, or even liveable. Instead, his ear trains hard on his Pip-boy, waiting to hear the Geiger counter go off, but even as the platform comes to a shuttering halt under their feet, he hears nothing but the howl of wind streaming through trees.

Blinking into the full brunt of their new world, Don first see's the grass lining the edges of the platform, the color green looking so bright in contrast to the stained and rusted metal that he can't believe his eyes. He looks up and out to the distance, gazing into the familiar view of the lookout point overhanging Sanctuary. His initial fears of seeing nothing but a wasteland are overruled by the sea of spring green sprouting from the ground as far as he can see. There are plants growing without restriction against the hidden buildings of the suburban streets, the houses almost totally hidden from view, even as he cranes his neck to see what remains of their old neighbourhood. Another light gust of wind billows trees at his right, he turns to see the forest as it sits with charred old wood that's collapsed and grown over with new life, leaves scant but viable across branches that are gnarled and twisted. A product of radiation growth, almost nightmarish in appearance, which holds hope for the world they left behind.

"Oh my god," Carolyn gasps in astonishment.

What should be total relief only worsens Don's anxiety, considering all the re-growth; his initial idea of a few decades spent underground might have been totally underestimated. If the earth has recovered to this extent, how long could they have been frozen? It's entirely possible that it's longer than the two of them would think possible.

He decides not to share his thoughts with Carolyn, allowing her to appreciate the quiet moment of respite, and to process her own thoughts on the matter. He turns to check out the rest of the area but then freezes on the spot at what he sees in the field behind the platform towards the downward slope.

There are half a dozen of them that he can count, littered about in the midst of construction equipment and poised in varied positions of agony, jaws laying open in silent screams, arms curled into obscure shapes. Some taken over by small plants, growing through the eyeless sockets and hollow ribcages like a greenhouse, the ground rising to cover the first half dozen inches of old rot, trying to swallow it. The charred and decayed bodies of everyone that had been left behind, soldiers, not barren skeletons like those in the vault, but those who've been partially mummified by the combination of dry blast heat and initial douse of radiation, giving their features graphic depictions of their very last expressions.

Through his peripherals, he sees Carolyn turn to follow his gaze. With a jolt, he reaches out and grabs her, pressing the palm of his hand on her large square glasses to shield her eyes. She yelps with surprise and immediately tries to squirm away from him, "Don, what're you doing?!"

He retains his grip and quickly leans over to speak in a low tone, as if anything louder would betray his own horror, "You really don't want to see this."

Carolyn hesitantly stops fighting his grip, and swallows thickly. Her shoulders begin trembling with anticipatory fear though her voice comes out even, "Is it bad?"

"Bodies," He answers truthfully, "Not like the ones in the Vault, these ones are... explicit. We need to go through them to get to the gate; I'm going to lead you through, okay?"

She opens her mouth, maybe in a protest lost to fear. Don considers letting her see them, because there could be something else is around that's so much worse. This could be the least terrifying thing the new world has to offer.

Finally she nods briskly in agreement, "Okay," and Don begins to pull her down towards the path at the far end of the field.

It's a slow pace, allowing him to take a good look around their perimeter as they progress. He steers around the bodies with a good foot and a half clearing to avoid each one with room to spare, expecting the stench of rot to hit them at any moment, but all he can smell is nature and petrichor on the breeze. The toes of his boots wet from the grass, he observes that it had rained not half an hour ago, across the tips of the tree's he spots the slow retreat of bluish popcorn clouds. He'd rather look at literally anything else at this point, and nature is doing a good job of providing him with a distraction.

"Is it okay to look yet?" Carolyn asks quietly.

Don peers over to the field as they finish crossing it, dipping behind the slope of the hill to shield the horror from their immediate view. He'd noticed a few cargo boxes and sheds that could be worth looking at for any kind of extra supplies. He's thinking in terms of making a ground camp somewhere, a place to shelter them while they get their bearings. With all of the construction equipment abandoned too, he's sure he could fashion something useful to help them settle in.

Ahead of them is the checkpoint gate set up by the military to feed people through one at a time, sitting underneath the large billboard once picturing a Vault-Tec advertisement for hospitality much different from what they received, the rusty chain link fence is now briskly overgrown with weeds and undergrowth, through it, he can see the pathway continue down into the forest on the way back into Sanctuary.

"Yeah," Don lets her go, "It should be okay now."

Carolyn peers over to him with hesitation, uncertainty. Stepping away and taking a few steps ahead to clean her glasses (smeared with a massive palm print) without him being in her immediate personal bubble. He doesn't blame her; he gives her the distance and takes his attention to the blue shed at their immediate left, vines growing up the sides and through the windows like deep red human veins trying to make the metal hulk a new piece of nature.

The wind howls and sounds something far too close to a human moan as it pushes through the cracks in the walls; Don takes several steps back in uneasiness. When his arm brushes against a red leaved bush on the opposite end of the path, he almost jumps out of his skin, the water still pooling on the leaves splatter onto his shoulder and down his arm, and several small droplets fall onto the screen of his Pip-boy. He practically leaps away and shakes himself off for being so jumpy.

Suddenly, his Pip-boy produces a small whine followed by the clicking of the built in Geiger counter, he wipes the screen clear in alarm to figure out what set it off, however as soon as he does, it goes silent again.

Don looks at his hand slightly dampened, rubbing his fingers together with a frown, and then bends down to press the heel of the computer against the damp toe of his boot. After a second or two, the Geiger counter starts to click once again, the dial hovering unsteadily around +1 Radiation a second. He checks the damped grass in the shade of the hill and receives a similar reading.

"Uh," He calls over to Carolyn, "We might have a problem here."

When he doesn't get an answer, he looks up to where she'd walked ahead a few meters, standing at the mouth of the chain link gate totally motionless. He leaps to his feet, wiping the rain from his shoulder and arm as it soaks into his suit, approaching with haste, "Hey, my counter got some readings from the rain left on the grass, I think-"

Don's feet come to such a sudden halt that his upper body almost teeters over; his hand outstretches to catch himself on the rusty fence with nothing but muscle memory. His gut wrenches a second, far more severe time in total unmitigated horror. Sitting just on the other side of the underbrush claiming the first third of the fence, are more bodies sitting melted in piles, more than a dozen of them all clumped together in three groups of unrecognizable humanoid shapes fused together by the heat of the bomb.

But nothing is as immediate as both Don and Carolyn recognizing a single body lying separate from the piles, a twisted figure curled back and over as though the spine where a wringed cloth, face jutting up and directly at them with leathery features they both recognize. The expression is one of slack jawed agony, the jaw stretched and torn at the corners giving the appearance of something barely human, the black hollow eyes are charred wide and intense with the exterior of her final moments.

And across her shoulders, fused to her leathery skin, are the remnants of the old fabric of a blue wool sweater.

Don makes no move to catch Carolyn as she collapses to her knees with a piercing wail.


	4. Picket Fences

_There's no way this can really be happening, it's just a nightmare. It has to be._

Carolyn trembles, her back shivering with a stark chill only worsened by her own terror, curled against the stained red upholstery of the pre-war couch, she'd attempted to sleep at no prevail. Instead she finds herself staring at the patterns of torn linen while tears gather in a pool drying over her left cheekbone. Her arms are curled inward, cupping her hands to her chest, while her knees are pulled almost directly up to her stomach. Over her shoulders to provide some insulation against the night air, is an old musty jacket found in one of the closets when Don had gone out to scout the houses for supplies while she was losing her mind to total hysteria with Codsworth at her side trying to calm her down.

She thought seeing Nate killed; to see him in the pod afterwards was horror enough, but when she'd seen those other bodies, and when she saw Nora. Oh god, she can't get the stained images of their faces, their bodies totally indistinguishable from the one's they'd melted to out of her head. She'd already tried to throw up again without much success before Don dragged her away in her frenzy, screaming in denial as he pulled her along until they were out of view, but the damage had been done, and she regretted ever thinking for a moment that she didn't want to be spared the view for confidence in her strength.

Through the soft shutters of her breathing, she can hear Don fast asleep next to the door, as a guard dog of sorts in case anything bigger than giant cockroaches decides to wander in. Don let her take the only couch in the house, it was thoughtful of him. Though he apparently is the type to find comfort anywhere he's horizontal. He'd taken a cushion from the arm chair tossed in the corner and bundled up the ratty carpet to lie on like a makeshift sleeping bag.

After it had gotten quiet, Carolyn began to feel the guilt and regret of not allowing Don to have an opportunity to grieve as well; he was far too absorbed in trying to get them relatively settled, and helping her with her own processes that he didn't really have the chance. She felt it selfish of her, Carolyn might have been Nora's best friend, but she was Don's wife, and both of them had to see her body in that state.

In the center of the room, about where the imaginary boarder between dining room and living room would be, is the fire he'd started late into the evening (well, he only got the kindling together, it was Codsworth's flamethrower that started it). Six cinderblocks and plenty of old wood littering the grounds, but it had died off far too long ago, the last of the warmth barely kept to the charcoal. Thankfully there wasn't much of a roof to speak of, or they might have been smoked out within the first few minutes.

The home had, at some point, been a center for a workshop now abandoned. Old lanterns sat broken or unused in the corners, outside an array of work benches for personal projects. Carolyn wouldn't doubt for an instant if they already belonged to the original owner, Rosa, and were just repurposed whenever humanity decided to crawl up from the ashes of the atom bombs.

Rosa wasn't an outwardly friendly woman, she was rather large and unattractive, never really spoke to anyone besides Mr. Hawthorne. If she wasn't so certain she had a preference for women, Carolyn might have assumed she and Mr. Hawthorne were in a transaction type relationship. For they never spoke to each other in public, it was only when Carolyn saw Rosa cross the road to meet with him at his home down near the end of the suburb.

At some point when Rosa had moved in a few months before the war, Carolyn had baked a homemade apple pie in an attempt to make some kind of suburban house wife friendship with the other women in the neighbourhood. She'd been turned away, quite callously, and told to mind her own business. She ended up sharing the pie with Nora.

Nora...

Her eyes start to pool again, sobs aching in the back of her throat. She remembers that day fondly, she'd offered the pie to her with a humorous outlook to an awkward situation, and they both enjoyed it without even taking it out of the tin, just the two of them with forks, sitting in the kitchen gossiping about Rosa's interest in Hawthorne and coming up with all kinds of scandalous theories about her using Buffout to bulk up her already massive frame.

The painful reality is that she'll never see her best friend again.

"God..." She croaks, pressing the balls of her hand to her eyes, trying to stop the flow. She'll never sleep at this rate.

With the creak of old wood barely gripping to the upholstery of the couch now certainly considered antique, she rolls over and sits up, first stretching out her cramped muscles and then pulling her arms through the old musty coat she'd been using as a blanket.

She first walks over to the fire now dead, holding a bare hand over the embers to feel any remaining heat; she may be able to throw a few branches into it to get it going again. That is, if she could manage to walk around the neighbourhood alone, at night, in the apocalypse. The desire for comfort versus potential danger weighs in her mind, she may be able to sleep if she tries hard enough, but the chill is going to make it very difficult.

Carefully, she walks over to the open door to peer out; the clear sky casts moonlight on her old neighbourhood and diminishes a little bit of the ominous aura permeating from the mauled buildings. At first glance they look like they could be occupied by all kinds of creatures that appear with the trick of the dark. There's an odd branch or two that she could see not more than a few paces up the road, it might be safe if she stayed low and quiet.

"Hello Mum!" The chipper voice of Codsworth almost causes Carolyn to jump right out of her skin, "Oh dear, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"It's okay," Carolyn holds out a hand to him in reassurance as her other lays over her thundering heart. He must have been just around the corner of the garage out of sight; she didn't even hear his rocket propulsion.

"Having a bit of sleeping troubles are we?"

Carolyn smiles at him, "Yeah, I'm a little cold actually. The fire died, so I was going to go out and get some more wood, but..."

"Don't trouble yourself so, Mum!" He adopts the task with immediate confidence, "I'll gather some more kindling, there should be plenty of it lying about, and I believe there's a lantern or two that could stand to be lit to stave off the dark!"

"Thank you, honey."

Codsworth lifts an armature to salute over his right optical, the one, she notices, is shattered, "Proud to serve, Mum!"

With that, the bot turns and floats down onto the road with tuneful cheery humming. Carolyn stares after him, worried that he may be too loud or obvious to be bobbing around in the dark, but if he's been here this long without being attacked, then it should be safe. The poor thing was so worried, (and astounded), when the two of them came stumbling into Sanctuary with dual versions of expressive horror. She hasn't even had a chance to ask him if he's alright, his body had been damaged quite severely with the passage of time, and most likely the hazards that he had to endure. One of his optical visors is broken as well as one of his armatures; it hangs half as long and useless in a tangle of wires. His body is dented, scuffed, and near the bottom of his propulsion there's exposed circuitry. She hesitates to ask if he's in pain, there's not much she can do to help him. Maybe Don could take a look and see what he could do.

Carolyn had never considered Codsworth just a machine, but Nate did. He never did like him, or consider him to be a part of the family. But he's been here the entire time, tending to the house as though he were still caring for her family. Carolyn doesn't even care that part of it may just be his programming, because to her that absolutely radiates loyalty. He's been here for two hundred years; that's what she heard when Don started grilling him in the midst of her breakdown. God… it doesn't seem possible. It felt like just yesterday, only twelve hours ago that she was in her home getting ready for the morning.

Carolyn pulls the old coat tight around her body to ward off the chill in her back and takes a few paces out onto the concrete open garage, scanning out into the dark for any signs of movement before she walks over to the collection of piled junk stuffed in the corner, squinting in the low light to investigate. Underneath a layer of dust and light debris is a lantern, its glass stained and cracked along the top like gnarled teeth. On one of the work benches, she spots a flip lighter, and stuffed underneath, an oil canister a few ounces full.

In a few minutes, she manages to fill and light the torch inside, the soft orange glow illuminating her surroundings and revealing the rust coated interior of the garage and house siding. Small flecks of green peak through the holes rusted right through, allowing small vines of plant life to take over. Carolyn walks forward and sits on the ledge of the garage to wait for Codsworth, seeing his bright orange jet flame off in the cul-de-sac at the top of the neighbourhood.

In the quiet, she finds she's too numb and exhausted to think too much more.

Within minutes, Codsworth returns with a bundle of dead wood branches curled in two of his armatures, more than enough. Carolyn watches as he piles them neatly against the barren wall like how her father would stack campfire logs at his summer cabin in the mountains. She was going to insist that he doesn't need to place them anywhere special, or to make an effort for them to look uniform, but he seems more than happy to do it with his continuous cheerful humming.

Carolyn stands with the lantern in hand and walks over, looping the metal handle over her wrist and letting the bot hand her a few lighter pieces of wood.

"Was there anything else I could help you with, mum?" He inquires.

She shakes her head, "No, that's okay. Thank you."

"Of course, mum!"

Carolyn turns with the intent to warm herself next to the heat of a roaring fire (if she could get it to light), but hesitates before she does, "Codsworth?"

"Yes, mum?"

She eyes his second optical, the center one that she usually focuses on whenever she speaks to him. His metal oculus dilates a little when she does, like he's nervous. There are little things in the way his eyes express that she can catch, it came with her occupation to be able to detect subtle body language. She can tell that he's compensating, attempting to cheer her up maybe, more likely that he's upset but doesn't want to bring it up without a catalyst, "Are you okay, honey?"

"Well, of course I am!" The bot answers immediately, "As a matter of fact I'm absolutely delighted, despite the circumstance, that after all this time you managed to return home, even though you were thoroughly distraught, I don't blame you, the garden was in absolute shambles!"

"The garden-No, Codsworth," Carolyn empties her arms of the contents right onto the workbench at her side alongside the lantern, casting ominous shadows over both of their figures, "I wasn't upset about the garden. You don't look well, are you… are you sure you're okay? You're not acting like yourself."

The bot emits a laugh that sounds quite forced, "Am I sure? Why mum! I've never been better, as a matter of fact, I found I quite like this new world of ours, all we need is some bug killer, a little lawn maintenance, and it'll be good as new!"

Carolyn feels her sinus burn with more oncoming tears; she nods noncommittally at him, feeling that much more alone with her own grief as it appears he's having no trouble with the adjustment. Even after so long, part of her was really hoping for someone to empathize with, "Of course."

"You could even perhaps do a little local house shopping in case you find something with sturdier framework; the house does make these awful creaking noises when it storms-!Oh... oh dear..."

Codsworth notices the second hot tears start to roll down Carolyn's cheeks and suddenly his mood dials back from its forced optimism.

"O-Oh, I'm sorry, Mum, please don't cry, I... I..." His voice emitter suddenly crackles with a swell of emotion, all three of his optical visors droop, his armatures curling inwards. Carolyn's distress finally breaking his composure, "Oh, Mum I can't stand it, it's been just awful! I didn't know what happened to you, or to Sir. I didn't know what else to do but stay put and… try to keep the house in top shape, but oh-! Ambraxo does _nothing_ against nuclear fallout! And the car hasn't even so much as _shimmered_ since it blew up! The roof leaks when it rains, the draft puts all my dusting to shame, and I just kept _trimming_ those dead hedges until there was _nothing left_!"

"Hey, hey" Carolyn reaches out and takes his center optical between her hands, which seems to snap him back from his hysterics, "Codsworth, honey, calm down..."

He sniffles, "Yes, mum... I'm sorry; I just... thought for certain you and your family were dead, I didn't know _what_ to do."

"I know," She soothes with a painful twinge in her heart, "I know you did and I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, mum. I only wish I had more to offer you than my services, but other than you and Mister Don, I didn't see anyone else near the Vault." He explains with a steadying voice, "There is one thing I managed to keep hidden in the house away from the radiation; it was a present from Sir."

Carolyn's throat feels tight, "From Nate?"

"Yes mum, it's a Holotape, though I'm certain he never meant for me to find it..." He takes a minute, and then straightens himself back out, making a noise that sounds like he's clearing his throat, purely metaphorical of course, and his mood perks right back up, "But, that can wait until morning! I'm sure you're eager to get back to bed."

Carolyn laughs a little hollowly, while she is eager to get warm and comfortable, she's not so sure about sleeping at all right now, "I'm still really awake. You know, why don't we go over to the house so you can find that Holotape for me? I... haven't really seen it from the inside and... I could really use some more company right now."

"If you say so, Mum, though I do know how much you organics love to get your beauty rest, I'm sure we can think of something to help lull you right into sleep, perhaps some music would do you good, there's a few radio stations running and at least one of them isn't terrible!"

Carolyn grins with a genuine chuckle, "Sounds like it's worth a shot."

With the lantern in hand, Carolyn lets Codsworth take the lead to cross the road to her house, which from the outside in the low light through the overgrown foliage looks like someone gave it a generous beating with a sledge hammer. Just like the others, there are whole chunks of siding missing, exposing the metal framework underneath; all the windows are hollow with any signs of glass to be long gone. A lot of the damage is covered and overgrown by red vines and green leaves. Her front door is, unfortunately, as orange and ugly as ever, only intensified by the glow of the lantern. Choice of the landlord, but some silver lining to this new world is that she isn't exactly around to yell at Carolyn about the warm fall aesthetic of pumpkin orange. In fact, it's going on the list of things Carolyn hopes to change once this nightmare is over, once her son is home and she can begin repairs, however possible that turns out to be is relative to the outcome of her own bravery.

Inside, however, is a whole new story. Carolyn has to stand at the door for a moment, totally stunned, gawking at the mess her home has been reduced to. Her furniture broken, upturned, torn, and splintered, the carpet that used to line the flooring is completely gone, the only fragments left being stuck to the edges of the wall in small rotting chunks, the kitchen table is on its side, almost all of the chairs broken and unusable. Chunks of foundation and glass crunch under her feet as she takes a single step in, over her head, she can see straight through the roof and into the night sky, the smell of mildew is strong, old wood rotting, and something sick and tangy that she can't put her finger on. It makes her ill and she can't bear to walk in any further, she takes a few steps back and stands idle on the mouldy welcome mat, spongy under the thin boots of the Vault suit.

Codsworth shuffles a few items down the hall and soon returns with a bright orange Holotape in his clawed armature, handing it over to her as she steps back onto the door path to let him pass, "There we are, Mum!"

"Thank you, sweetie," She looks at the tape, turning it over in her hands to see black marker written on a length of tape across the back. The handwriting distinctly Nate's in all capitals and slightly crooked, she sucks in a sharp breath and turns it back over; stuffing it in the pocket of the musty jacket she's wearing with the intent to forget it for now, "So," She smiles at the bot as they begin to make their way back across the road, "Where did you end up hiding it?"

"Bread box in the linen closet, hah!" Codsworth mocks, "Those leather clad ruffians wouldn't think to look there!"

"What ruffians?" Carolyn is both hesitant and amused.

"Why those un-gentlemanly type Raiders of course, always futzing about looking for scavenge and threatening to scrap me for bits, that's how I got this," He taps his claw armature on the shattered glass of his broken optical.

"...Raiders?" Her chest tightens in fear, that didn't sound good, not at all.

"Not to worry yourself, mum," Codsworth assures her, "They haven't been around in months, not since they moved into that large vehicle manufacturing plant north of the Commons, I haven't seen anyone around aside from the odd radroach here and there, can't keep the nasty things away."

"That's good to know," She sighs in relief, though she's sure that Raiders aren't the only threat this new world is capable of.

"Uh, before we settle you down to rest, I just wanted to apologize for the state of the house," Codsworth adds hesitantly, stopping them both about halfway back, "After a few hundred years I had to accept the fact that it would never be as clean as it once was and well, truthfully I got a little fed up battling the elements and may have, in an incident of boiling frustration... torn out all of the carpeting?"

Carolyn stares at him totally speechless, trying to wrap her mind around the picture of the ever-chipper butler bot throwing a tantrum and ripping all the carpet right off the foundation. It comes out as something painfully hilarious.

Trying to hold back laughter, she only smiles at him, tight lipped, and reaches out to pat him on the flame thrower armature, "It's okay, honey. I never liked the carpeting."

"Well, then it's cause for a win-win, I say!" He laughs, "Once young Shaun is back, we can fix it up proper with wood flooring, I much prefer-"

 _ **KA-BOOM!**_

In an abrupt, bright electrical flash, Codsworth's center optical shatters into a ball of metal shrapnel, Carolyn leaps back with a harsh yelp of shock, dropping the lantern onto the ground with a crack of glass and a flash of fire catching on the leaking oil around her feet. She stumbles back as Codsworth's large spherical body tumbles off to the side and nearly collapses to the ground, the fire illuminating the mass of gnarled metal where his oculus used to be.

"Codsworth!" She gasps.

The bot focuses his one remaining oculus on her, his propulsion hitching and barely keeping him floating, his voice comes out thick and disoriented with apparent shock, "Oh... oh dear... are you alright, mum?"

Any response of hers is immediately interrupted by a second shot, a loud distant crack that tears through Codsworth's spherical body like an unforgiving claw, ripping the plating to pieces and pulling wires along with it as it runs him through completely. Carolyn plasters her hands against her mouth and _shrieks_ as his body falls limp against the broken road, the grinding of rock and metal painful with the weight of total mechanical emptiness.

From behind her, she can hear the distinct sound of scattered footsteps coming from the house where they'd set up camp, Don is up, and he's racing towards her as fast as possible, the sounds waking him from dead sleep. He reaches out and grabs her without a word, pulling her back towards the house with such a force that she trips on the driveway incline and falls to her rear, scraping her palms against the concrete.

"What did you see?" He asks frantically, all evidence of being totally asleep as few moments ago vanishes from his face, "Who was shooting at you?!"

Carolyn opens her mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a guttural sob. Don curses aloud and quickly checks the clip chamber of the 10mm he's already holding. He cocks the top back and grabs her shoulder, "I want you to go inside. Go into the kitchen and pile as much as you can in front of the doorway, block it off with something heavy, and stay quiet."

"Oh god..." She chokes.

"Carol, listen to me, you need to hide," He urges, "Take one of the pistols with you, and make sure it's loaded, when it's clear I'll come get you."

"No, no, you can't-" Carolyn pleads, "No, Don, don't leave me alone, please-"

 _AH-WOOO!_

A mock howl rings the air like a warning, coming from the bridge to the suburb. Following close behind are handfuls of laughter and whistles coming from a group of people approaching to collect what remains of their kill.

Raiders...

If they saw Codsworth then they certainly saw her too.

Don stands and presses against the wall of the garage to look off in the same direction with cover at his shoulder, peering out with nothing to light his view but the last bits of fire staining the road from the broken lantern. The group isn't being subtle as they call out with more animal like sounds, a terrifying trait to those who aren't afraid of what they're going to face.

"Carol, go!" Don hisses.

Quickly she scrambles to her feet, keeping low as she races back into the house, first digging in Don's pack, next to where he'd been sleeping, for the second gun. It's large, bulky, and heavy in her hand, she shoves it into her jacket. She's not sure what she can manage to do with it, but she'd rather have it than nothing at all. The threat of being shot by a terrified woman should bring her some kind of security in case she's found. Oh god, what if they _do_ find her?

She scans the dark room for anything large and heavy that she can pull in front of the kitchen archway, the couch and recliner, kitchen table, a few dining chairs, and a coffee table. She begins with the kitchen table, pulling it in place and stacking damp cardboard boxes onto it. Next she pushes the recliner against the table to cover the underside, leaving enough for her to crawl through. Her heart is pounding in her ears, she can barely hear the group as they approach, but the orange glow of their lights becomes visible through the open dining room window. Carolyn falls to her knees to avoid the light, with no more time to barricade; she grabs the leg of a chair and crawls through between the recliner and kitchen table, pulling it in the way of the opening. She slides away from the archway, the last meter of space above the boxes open like a wound. She feels exposed.

Without standing, she moves over between the wall sink and the broken refrigerator, its door hanging loose and halfway open, squeaking as she slides flush against the wall with harsh pants of fear. She quickly pulls the 10mm out of her jacket to fumble with it in the dark, trying to mimic how Don checked the clip and cocked it back.

Before she has a chance, she hears a yell that sounds far too close, and then the gunfire starts.

With a whimper she covers her ears against the barrage of shots snapping in the air, what sounds like several kinds of weapons all going off at once. Her back vibrates as bullets pierce the walls next to her in the garage, aimed at Don. She wants to help, but she's too scared to move, to afraid of what's going to happen if she makes a sound. She turns her head as flashes of orange expose small holes in the wall, peering through to see a man on the road holding a torch in one hand, and a large metal tire iron in the other. It's wrapped in barbed wire, bloodied and coarse with chunks of flesh. She covers her ears again as the gunfire resumes, punching dust from the ground as it patters at his feet, catching him in the shoulder with a spray of blood and a pained outcry. Carolyn spins back and clasps her eyes shut, biting her lip to stop from making a distraught whimper.

After what feels like fifteen minutes, the gunfire stops, and the laughter resumes, all circling to one location just up the road, Carolyn spins and peers through the hole next to her head again, immediately seeing a scene of several men standing in a circle around someone clad in blue, Don.

They're just up the road, maybe ten meters from where she is. She can see a bullet wound in Don's arm, his hair astray and laying in his face, but he stares up at the largest man in the group without blinking. A man layered in broken and rusty makeshift armour, spiked on the shoulders and pieced together with strips of leather and old fabric. Everyone else in the circle is dressed nearly the same, but most are dressed scant, exposing their skin as dirty and caked with old blood and god knows what else.

"Where's the girl?" The large man's voice is rough like gravel, commanding in tone. It must be the leader of their group.

Don blinks and raises his brow in mock surprise, "I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

"Scout saw her talking to the robot, we know she's here."

Don shrugs, "Yeah, that was me, I've been told I have a very feminine figure in the right light, kinda gay of your scout if you think about it, but, I can't help that I'm pretty."

Carolyn outwardly gasps as the man strikes Don across the face with the butt of his rifle, blood spatters from his mouth, and it almost sends him flying onto the concrete, "Fuck you, asshole. We ain't stupid. Give us the girl and we might let you off easy."

Dom straightens back out, flicking his hair off his cheek to reveal a large bloody gash on his lower lip. He spits scarlet ooze from his mouth and then smiles up at the Raider leader, "Fuck off, you gimp."

Carolyn's eyes bulge in horror as the man doesn't hesitate to press the end of his rifle to the center of Don's chest and pull the trigger. A single shot rings in the air, the sickening sound of it embedding Don's chest practically echoes as he's flung onto his back. Carolyn mashes her hand against her mouth to stop from screaming.

"Check all the houses and keep a few of our guys near the trees, we don't want to bitch taking off into the woods," The man orders and points out to the other side of the suburb.

The Raiders scatter and Carolyn is suddenly fuelled by the sudden imminent danger. They'll find her hiding in here, even if she can manage to fire this gun, it won't do any good against that many of them. She needs to get out, she needs to leave right now and run as far away as she can, as fast as she can. She'll go up the road to Concord; she'll find somewhere to hide.

Quickly she puts the 10mm back in the jacket and crawls forward to push the chair out of her crawlspace, when she ducks into it, she's suddenly snagged by the arm, her jacket is caught on the wall at her side, "No, no, no, come on," She begs in a whisper.

The flare of an orange torch suddenly shines through the wall cracks again, and she gives in to total dread, thrashing off the jacket in process, leaving it, and its contents, behind to crawl back out into the dining room. She doesn't even look to see if she's in the line of view, she only sprints down the hall and into the bathroom, the window is open, void of glass, as she lifts herself up and crawls through, careful not to make much noise as she steps into the overgrowth behind the building, looking around for any sources of orange light, but it looks like they're all going up towards the cul-de-sac.

She backs up towards the playground, keeping herself close to the hedges in case she needs to hide, but as she turns the corner, a strong hand grabs her painfully by the wrist, the other seizing her mouth to stop her from yelling out. At her ear, a sick voice murmurs in a condescending tone.

"Gotcha bitch."


	5. Natural 20

Waking up is not supposed to hurt.

Not unless you take a three hour nap on the couch and regret every moment after that. Then in that case, waking up would most certainly hurt. It's usually metaphorical, a languish exhaustion that makes you feel like there's not enough water in the world to drink and no amount of food to fill that unmistakable void that follows. You kind of wait it out and go about your day with that nagging feeling until bedtime.

However, waking up in the middle of the road with the morning sun cooking your face, and a sharp white hot blade piercing the center of your chest, is painful in an entirely literal way. Not only is Don completely convinced he's got a third degree sunburn on his already aching face, he's also convinced that there is no way in hell he actually survived getting shot at point blank, considering it was aimed right at his fucking heart.

He writhes against the cold and unforgiving slab of concrete that had been supporting his unconscious frame, along with his ass, shoulders, spine, neck, and skull all throbbing with discomfort, moving his torso at all opens a whole new can of agony. It's the kind of pain that stuns a person out of any kind of response that doesn't sound like a tiny shrieking insect.

Oh yeah, he was shot alright. He's just trying to figure out why he didn't bleed out immediately after hitting the ground because he certainly passed out from how unbelievably painful it had been, like getting sucker punched right in the bronchial tubes by a freight train.

Don cranes his head up to see the entry wound; trying his darndest not to move anything else in the process. He sees a dime sized hole sitting about an inch or so off center between his pectorals, blood staining the fabric of the jumpsuit a few inches around, but frayed black, burnt. A careful hand reaches up and gently dabs the wound. The frayed ends of the jumpsuit are crisp to the touch, it's tingling with the reboot of a harsh burn that he's sure is going to hurt like a bitch the minute he decides to get vertical, oh yeah, point blank and everything that follows, including instant cauterization.

The leader of the group that attacked them, whoever he was, probably insecure about the amount of leather everyone was wearing when Don insulted him, had jabbed him pretty good with the end of his rile before firing. Like he assumed that by doing so, the insistence of his shot would somehow hurt Don more than a normal gunshot wound. In the laughable reality, the bastard only really ensured Don's survival. He could have easily bled out even if the bullet didn't destroy something important.

Assuming the bullet isn't still lodged in his chest, there ought to be a gaping exit wound sitting where his spine should still be. Making sure he could actually move his entire body wasn't something the shock has allowed him to find out just yet. Don lays his head back down; well he can move his arms and feel pain, so that's good. However, the pain is centralized at his chest where the bullet hit, there's no pain or swelling to indicate an exit wound of any kind.

He swallows heavily, his entire mouth coated from front to back with the metallic taste of blood, most likely seeped in by the aching gash across his lower lip and chin; he can feel the itching of dried blood flaking on his jaw and neck. His guess, the bullet is stuck somewhere in his sternum or ribs.

Don carefully reaches up and dabs at the wound once more, this time pressing against something that at first he guessed was bone, right up until he taps the end with his fingernail to indicate something metal and foreign, non organic to the touch. His conclusion, the bullet is most definitely lodged firmly in his sternum.

His hypothesis, weapons from pre-war are the only weapons that were at the peak of their condition, in this day and age, the quality of such must have deteriorated, leaving weapon impact and effectiveness something to be desired. Had Don been shot with a pre-war assault rifle, it would have shattered the bone on impact and left him with a gaping wound to breathe through. Since he'd been shot with whatever that guy had shot him with, the bullet not only wasn't travelling at the right speed to do the job, most likely due to a maintenance or bullet quality issue, it had come very close to almost literally bouncing off his chest.

Don starts to laugh, but immediately regrets it when his entire chest erupts with scolding white hot pain, his chortle ends in a sharp gasp. New conclusion, the bullet is lodged firmly in his sternum and now all the bone within the radius of impact is now either fractured or broken.

So the bullet didn't kill him, but having his heart or lung punctured by a shard of bone definitely would. He may be in a fair bit of trouble if he can't find something to set and pressurize his ribcage. A length of material wrapped diagonally around either side would work until he could find a doctor. If doctors were even still a thing in this post-apocalyptic hellhole, right now, he could really use a Stimpack, or some Med-X, or... oh.

Oh shit.

Somewhere in his mind, waking up from being shot had, understandably, taken the forefront of his concern. However, while assessing his condition, again understandably important, he'd forgotten the entire reason he'd gotten shot in the first place.

Carolyn.

"F-fuck me," Don gasps aloud as he practically leaps to his feet, forgetting the concern of his ribs killing in with a wrong twist, as he stumbles, half running, towards the yellow house she'd taken refuge in. He makes it to the door before the pain of only breathing is too much to handle and he has to stop. He presses a hand to the door frame and listens through the pounding in his ears, his head pulsing with a headache almost comparable to his ribs. He presses a hand to his chest in an attempt to quell the pain.

"Carolyn!" He calls out desperately, his voice choking and hoarse, "Uh, guess what, I've been shot! So, if you're in here, now would be a really good time to come out and give me a hand!"

Silence...

"Ooh-kay..." He exhales unsteadily and takes a few steps in, immediately noticing the half assed barrier Carolyn must have thrown together in her panic, what looks like Garbage Mountain from where he stands, just a table with piles of mouldy cardboard boxes with a recliner stuffed underneath. He wishes he could take a picture of it if only to preserve how pathetic it looks, he'd probably end up using the picture for cannon fodder. Honestly, he can't give her too much flack for it; it's probably the first time she's had to hide from angry leather clad hooligans.

Quickly he shoves the boxes aside, sending the pile to the ground with deflated impact, unloading the half dry paper contents across the already filthy floor. He leans over the table to look into the kitchen, all he can see immediately is the large fridge and stove as they sit apart and untouched, groaning uneasily as the wind shifts the house around him. She's not here.

At the foot of the table, torn and hooked on the wall next to the base of the recliner, Don spots what looks like the same coat as the one Carolyn had been using last night. He leans over and pulls it off from the nail it had caught on, tearing the sleeve further, and immediately he notices the weight of full pockets. He quickly rummages through it, on one side is an orange Holotape taped and written on, and the other, a fully loaded and unused 10mm pistol with the safety still on.

He's suddenly filled with dread; she wouldn't have left this behind unless she was desperate to escape. Which means she's out here somewhere without protection, without anything but her Vault Suit, and he can assume that it would make her stand out like a sore thumb, it doesn't exactly scream 'nothing to see here folks!' Anyone with a good vantage point could spot her a mile away.

He turns to where he'd left the makeshift campsite, only to see that it's been totally ransacked, they didn't even bother to make his damn bed afterward. In fact, all that was left was the satchel bag he'd made last night out of an old pair of pants; literally, he'd found slacks and put them off just above the knee, knotted the remaining ends, and used a belt to close the top up. After filling it with odds and ends, a little food, ammo, and water, it had looked like he was carrying a bloated pair of shorts.

And of course they looted that too, of everything but a few damn bobby pins, and after combing through the house ruins, he literally has nothing left to defend himself but is own damned fists. And considering one wrong twist could shove a rib into something important, he elects that hand to hand combat may not be optimal.

So maybe Carolyn leaving the pistol behind wasn't a terrible thing, if he were looking for any kind of silver lining.

Don stuffs his findings into his pair-of-pants scavenge bag and takes off in a rush to the other side of the street, slow enough to avoid any more unnecessary pain. If she was hiding out in the area, the bare foundations of what used to be her house would be his best guess. She would go somewhere familiar and therefore, safe.

"Carolyn!" He calls out, standing the open doorway of the home waiting to hear anything but the unnatural groan of old metal, but to no avail. God these houses are nightmare fuel, and Don isn't sure he likes the idea of being alone in this suburban graveyard that would be indisputably haunted.

Don skims over each room, making sure she's not hiding away and is only too afraid to answer him, but it's empty. Though he _does_ find that the general sense of unease grows the longer he's in the house, it's not just the damage and tattered furniture making the oxygen heavy and noxious. It's all of the residual energy of what used to be their _home_. Both hers and Nate's, before his enlistment, and particularly after, Don can recognize it only because his own house had the same suffocating air when he returned home to Nora.

Every noise triggered an alarm, any sound that he couldn't immediately explain would warrant investigation, he avoided walking on the lawn, always kept his back to the wall at the dinner table, he would eye people as they walked by the window, he even sniffed his food before taking the first bite. All these paranoid habits that followed him home dominated the first few weeks. It was somewhere within those last few months that Don realized that being home meant that the danger was gone, and he started to get better. The smog began to dissipate.

Though, he would still jump six inches off his chair when the toast popped out of the toaster... but in Carolyn's house, it's like the energy never thinned.

Don quickly shakes himself and hastily continues his search, making his way up to the Cul-de-sac and through the houses that weren't reduced to a pile of rubble. In every house he'd scavenged from, there were no signs of new barricades or that Carolyn had been there at some point. Not anything but a few muddy boot prints tracked into the rooms that lead only back outside, bigger than Don's feet, and likely belonging to any one of those ruffians. They searched the houses, albeit without much care, but there wasn't a lot of room to hide. If she took refuge in any of them, it wouldn't have been for long. It looks like they even went so far as to take the bodies of the three men that Don was able to drop. Only the dried bloody smears of where they fell remained. Too bad, Don might have been able to use whatever they had on them.

After making it down to the bridge, searching the last isolated house on the end, Don stares out passed the shallow river to the tree's at the bank, the roots overgrowing through the stone lining and collapsing most of what used to hold the soil back when the river rose in the spring. Don considers his limited options, though he knows the closest town is Concord and that's most likely where she would go next, it's the same direction the initial attack came from. He can assume the Raiders went through Concord from wherever they came from initially. He could track them as far as that if they ended up grabbing her after all, though there were too many places they could go from there. Including whatever is left of the entirety of Boston.

North and West are all woodlands for miles, so he can count those out. Carolyn wouldn't run off into the woods without supplies, at least Don really, _really_ , hopes she wouldn't. Though, in terms of general panic, she might have, if even just to hide. He wants to assume she would go somewhere that provides immediate shelter; she was afraid after all, not stupid.

He'll scout out the gas station first; see if there's anything worth looting, he could use some basic first aid and something to drink along with whatever he can find for self defence. He'll need more than just a 10mm with a full clip if he has to take on any more of those bandits.

Before setting out on what could very possibly be a suicide mission, Don back tracks up the hill to the motionless body of the Mr. Handy Bot they shot down, Codsworth is what Carolyn called him. He can recall the Robertson house being the talk of the neighbourhood, the first in their location to have one; they'd won him in some kind of contest and didn't have to pay for it. Don remembers begging Nora to convince them to let him have a look at the bot, he missed working with the Mr. Gutsy's while on the field and he was really itching to get his hands on another.

He bends over to inspect the damage, it looks like the bandits had completely glossed over even taking any of the scrap, though the husk of metal itself is very well and done and would probably be only good for recreational disposal. He peels back some of the metal plating loosened by the kill shot and locates the hard drive tucked down near the base. The three inch black box comes loose with a snap and he inspects it to find that it's still in pretty good condition. With this, he can hope to implant the memories and personality matrix into another machine, maybe even something a little deadlier like a Securitron. In any case, the Bot didn't deserve to go out like that and Don has the know how to bring him back from robo-purgatory.

He smiles forlornly at the Mr. Handy corpse and pats the top of it's shattered globe, "I gotcha, buddy."

Don stuffs the drive into his satchel, checks the condition and the ammo count of his pistol, and takes a single grounding breath with his hand pressed firmly to his chest to limit his rib expansion. He shouldn't be fighting, or even walking around like this. His family doctor would shit his pants if he knew.

When he turns on heel to start his trek to what he assumes is a still standing gas station, a large furry animal sits in his immediate path, startling out of him a loud and undignified _GUH!_ As he flinches back and almost trips on one of Codsworth's limp armatures.

The animal, a German Sheppard, only cocks its head up at Don curiously, watching him with studying brown eyes as the man regains his composure. Don's pretty sure that if his finger was on the trigger at that very moment, he would have absolutely shot the poor thing down due to reflex.

"Holy shit-" Don gasps, the ache in his chest flaring in response as he braces a hand on his knee to exhale, "-DOG."

The dog whimpers a little, and Don notices it's holding something angular in its mouth, which it promptly drops to its muddy paws as a kind of offering. He immediately recognizes the white and purple syringe of a full Med-X dose. Only slightly covered in dog drool and dirt, but he takes it as a sign from God that good things still exist in the apocalypse.

He practically drops to his knees in relief, taking the Med-X and wiping it off in the bend of his elbow. He can't assume that it's anywhere near sanitized enough to actually use without the risk of infection, but he'll risk it for a pain killer. He thinks for a moment to perhaps save it when he's in a secure environment, giving himself a chance to properly asses his wound other than poking at it with guesswork, that and he's sure too much will make him too high to do combat. At least being in pain keeps him grounded.

"You're a good dog, yes you are," Don coos at the Sheppard, fluffing up the fur around his neck with his scratches, "bringing a stranger pain medicine, good boy."

When Don opens his satchel to put the Med-X away, the dog immediately dives forward and stuffs entire muzzle into the bag, "Hey, no, no, bad poochie!" Don tries to push him away, "There's nothing in there for you!"

The dog grabs and yanks out the musty old coat Don had stuffed away, bringing with it, the rest of his scant inventory which scatters on the ground at his knees. Don kind sits back on his feet in total judgement, unimpressed at the animal's behaviour, watching as he drags the coat back and begins to paw at it. It appears that he's trying to spread it out, laying it flat against the ground, and sniffing at it rapidly, pausing at the arm crooks and collar to inhale deeply, and then starts sniffing at the ground in the direction of the yellow house.

Don, watching the dog apprehensively, slowly stuffs everything back into the satchel. He's not entirely sure why the dog went for the jacket, or even why it brought him drugs, but he has a sneaking suspicion that he belongs to someone, maybe someone with intentions he's not sure he wants to know.

When the pooch continues forward and disappears around the side of the yellow house, Don elects to follow for curiosities sake, with the safety off of course.

Around the side of the building, Don pushes through the overgrown foliage into a partially fenced backyard, though the picket fences have been totally strangled by lush vines, only recognisable by the flecks of white paint and semi-angular forms they managed to keep. Any free standing bits lay scattered across the ground, probably knocked over by the initial blast of the bomb, or simply from the elements.

He spots the dog sniffing at the ground near the end of the hedges growing in every direction like bracken claws. He's pawing through the grass and ferns to grab at something with his mouth, something glass that reflects the sunlight and flashes Don in the eyes for a second.

When he trots back over with his discovery, he drops it at Don's feet with an anxious whimper, what looks like a pair of glasses.

Don leans over and picks them up, there's an arm missing on the left side and one of the lenses is cracked like a spider web. The frame is also bent inwards at the nose and the ends are caked in dirt like someone heel stomped them into the mud.

For a moment he's lost to the significance of a pair of broken glasses, until he remembers that Carolyn had found a pair down in the Vault to wear, an old pair a lot like this one.

Anxiously, he marches up to where the dog found them and recognizes the patters of a violent struggle. Ripped and torn grass grinded into mush, ferns smeared into the mud, a boot print larger than Don's forearm similar to the size he'd found in some of the houses, and what he hopes to god isn't blood smudged on the broken picket fence piece jutting outwards next to the disturbed hedge.

Don reaches out to touch the end of the fence where it looks like something muddy had been caught on the sharpest end. He grips and pulls off a strip of stained bright blue fabric. What he recognises as the same fabric of his Vault suit, only what he thought at first as being mud is actually blood that had soaked in and was dried by the sun.

He was wrong in assuming that she escaped; those bastards snatched her up while she was trying to get away, most likely after he'd been shot and she found herself alone and vulnerable. Don's hands ball into white knuckled fists, he should have cooperated with them, struck some kind of deal, tried to ensure that neither of them were killed, even if that meant giving in to post-war gang bangers. At least then Don could have done something more productive than get left for dead.

But no, he's been a wise ass his entire life and God help him if he didn't always get in the last word. His drill sergeant had an ulcer for every word Don ever said while in training, but it was always Don that faced the consequences of his actions, not like now, where it was his fault his wife's best friend was kidnapped.

At his side, the dog nuzzles at Don's hand, pushing his face between his arm and leg to get his attention. Don pats his head gently, and then turns to kneel down at face level with the pup. He holds out the bit of fabric to his muzzle, "Hey boy, I need your help to find my friend. Can you track her?"

The dog sniffs at the fabric, and then sniffs the air; he cocks his head in the direction of the Sanctuary Bridge and then barks at him affirmatively.

"Good boy," Don praises, "Though, let's try to stay away from the center of the hornets' nest, okay?"

The dog merely cocks his head and whines in confusion.


	6. Survivalist

There was some point in Carolyn's past where she'd experienced a concussion firsthand, maybe when she was around fourteen years old, not that she could remember it at all, it was everyone else in the family telling her all about what had happened. It occurred when she'd played baseball for the same team as her brother Ronny, it had been mixed gender with both boys and girls, pretty liberal for the time, but the argument still stood for most that girls and boys had no business playing on the same field, something about girls not being able to take a hit. While Carolyn herself was nowhere near prolific in her own practice as a batter; (she would have considered herself quite average), she often would argue in favour of mixed teams if only to stick close to her brother. It was on that particular day that she can't remember that she'd proved to the parents, coach, and the rest of the nay-sayers that girls could in fact take a hit.

Ronny never told the story straight, it always managed to change, but her favourite version was that their pitcher, Arnie, had a crush on her that would shame a junior high prom queen. Every time she stepped up to bat, he couldn't throw worth a damn and the coach would either give Carolyn the first base or send him to the bench. What happened then, according to Ronny, was that the umpire started making fun of Arnie for his little crush, and Arnie had, in a mortified rage, thrown the ball at the umpire with the intent to hit him anywhere it hurt. However, throwing the ball in a fit of rage only ensured its total inaccuracy, its actual target ended up being Carolyn's face.

As the story goes that's also why he quit the team and switched schools, Ronny was certain that somewhere out in the world that that horrified expression was permanently plastered to his adult features.

Considering the outcome, she knows what it feels like to have a concussion and waking up with one is nowhere near as pleasant as waking up from cryogenic freezing, especially when you wake up folded over someone's shoulder like a rolled up length of carpet.

It's barely sunup from what she can tell when she first opens her eyes into blurry painful haze, but it's not what she first notices about her immediate predicament. Her head feels like its splitting open, a gash of pain arching from her eyebrow diagonally across to the back of her neck, only intensified by the stiff aching muscles in her back and shoulders, and the pounding of blood pooling in her head from being half hung upside down. Her skull feels like a large red balloon about to pop, she may very well throw up again, not that she'd put much in her stomach last night, she found she could barely eat a morsel of food that Don had found for them in an old basement cellar. She swallows the saliva beginning to pool in her mouth, only to find her lips and cheeks plastered to a length of duct tape.

Yes, throwing up right now would be a very bad idea.

Squinting, trying to see through the headache, her hair is hanging in her face and effectively cutting off her view of anything besides the rear and back steps of whoever is hauling her. His boots caked in mud, crunching gravel and grass under his heels in a slow swaggering saunter, most likely from having to carry Carolyn. Around his belt are braided pieces of leather, pockets stained and blackened from use, full of angular bits and pieces, what she guessed might be ammo.

With a single readjusting hoist, the man carrying her reawakens the discomfort in the rest of her body, she's suddenly painfully aware of the sharp prod sitting against her lower abdomen, what must have been previously numbed by the consistent pressure from the plate of metal sitting across the shoulder she's laying across. The jolt crawls across her waist and up her back diagonally with a slow burn, aching against where her arms are bound. With every second step and low swagger it only worsens, she's suddenly thankful the tape over her mouth is muffling any sounds of agony she's failing to conceal.

Tears pooling and running up the length of her forehead, she tries to remember how she got there but her head hurts so terribly all she can think of is the relief of being upright.

Suddenly, from a distance, she can hear a somehow familiar howl, a group of people ahead calling out and whistling, catcalling whoever is carrying her upon their approach. What sounds like humanoid wolves in a stadium, cheering on their warrior before a battle, surrounding them from above. Through the noise, she can hear a nearby motor running, a beam of light that passes by the man's feet, and at his side stacked sand bags and building debris tossed aside to make a wide path.

Carolyn gets the sudden terrifying notion that she's arrived at the intended destination and that the intentions are nowhere near pleasant. She's in really big trouble with no recollection as to how she got there.

Ahead of them, the creak of a metal door on rusty hinges pierces her ears, escalating the throbbing her head almost already at its peak to the point where she wavers in and out of consciousness over the next few moments, so much so that when she's finally still, she has no idea how much time has passed and probably won't know until she can reorient herself. Her head is full of static, she can't think or really process why she's stopped moving forward, but she can hear the voices around her echo in the space that smells like an extra large car garage.

"Jared, I got another one!" The man carrying her calls out, Carolyn recognizes the voice but she can't quite place it, a low gravelly voice broken down into something almost sickly, it vibrates from his chest and strikes a sudden bout of fear at the implication of not being the first one captured.

From above them, she hears the sound of boots stomping on metal, slow to approach until they come to a halt with the sound of a hand slapping on a metal hand rail, the sound reverberating down the length of the room and etching a blind picture of the platforms expanse. The man calls down after a few seconds of silence, his voice almost cleaner than the first and one she absolutely doesn't recognize, "Where'd you find her?"

"Her and her boyfriend were wandering around some pre-war houses up north, fresh out of the vault looks like, real clean looking, I think the boss is really gonna like this one." The man pats the back of Carolyn's thigh twice, planting his hand on the plump flesh and spreading his fingers wide to grip tight, even through the fabric of the Vault suit, her skin shutters, sending a trail of goose bumps straight up her spine and twisting her stomach in immediate dread.

The man he called Jared sounds more like he's talking to himself when he responds, "He fuckin' better, I ain't runnin' a god damn charity. I got other important shit to deal with."

The man carrying her lets out a low annoyed grunt, mimicking the other's tone and volume, "Yeah, wouldn't want to ruin your project for the fucking science fair..."

"What the fuck did you say?" Jared snaps.

"I said you have beautiful fucking hair, you want the bitch or not?"

Jared lets out a tired groan and Carolyn can feel the man's chest rumble with a chuckle under her stomach. He readjusts his grip; apparently receiving a silent confirmation from Jared that she didn't see, and proceeds to haul her up a set of metal stairs at the left end of the room, he sounds exhausted as he proceeds, his pace slowing significantly until he finally gets to the top with a huff. She can smell the sweat and pungent body odour he's emitting, what smells like a mixture of gasoline and oil on top of everything else, and something close to what she fears is blood. He's had to carry her for a while, which means he might be tired enough for Carolyn to fight him off if she needed.

"Where do you want her?" The man asks as they walk across a grated platform and extended bridge hanging above the floor ten feet below, Carolyn is able to turn her head only just to make out the factory floor of a vehicle manufacturing plant. Pre-war vehicles lay disassembled and rusted on their conveyor platform stations, large red girder pillars are placed throughout around the boarders of the different assembly stations, and a large caged off power station sits central.

Her heart begins to race with anticipatory adrenaline; she recalls coming here as a girl with her class to see the factory in action, a school field trip courtesy of a General Atomics International partner. She remembers asking questions about the vehicles nuclear core, and jotting down notes for an essay due that week on a subject of choice.

She knows exactly where she is, the Corvega Assembly Plant.

"Just toss 'er in the corner away from the equipment," Jared responds as the floor disappears behind the walls of the office that overlooks production, "I don't want her near this shit, I'd throw 'er in the basement if I wasn't sure that she'd be torn to pieces by the strung out pieces of shit we decided to recruit."

Torn paper is carelessly kicked aside as she's carried across the room, a few empty tin cans and bits of scrap metal lay in piles that he steps over, "I like how you say 'we' like I had a fucking say in who you decided to let in, you just wanted to fill space and didn't give a shit who filled it."

"Sounds like your Ex." Jared jabs with a smirk.

The man cackles, "Yeah, fuck off."

He stops, kneels down, arches his shoulder down, and literally throws her body to the side and right onto the cold metal without a hint of ease. Her shoulder and elbow crack against the floor, sending a bolt of new pain into her joints and a jab right against the burning pain crawling up her back like fresh blood. She can't help the cry of pain that she emits against the duct tape.

Neither of them seems to notice her, either that or they don't care too much. He only stands right back up after unloading her without so much as a sideways glance, stretching out his back with the dull crackle of cartilage in a half dozen places.

"It's nice to know you don't think I'm also a strung out piece of shit, though," He pulls out a half crushed and stained white box of cigarettes from his back pocket, pulling two out and offering one to Jared, who accepts after a short break of annoyance.

"Y'know what I mean, Gristle," He growls, "You ain't like them other assholes."

He turns to glare at Jared without a response. Carolyn, now lying down, finds her head beginning to clear if only mildly, and is able to take in the two standing before her, and they're quite shocking in appearance. The man that carried her all this way, Gristle, is plastered in bits of orange welded metal covering the majority of his torso, the sharp shoulder armour explaining the pain in her abdomen. His bare arms show an array of scars all healed in different progressions, from one that looks to be years old to another that is startlingly recent, perhaps hours ago. His hair is shaved into a four inch pail blonde, almost white Mohawk, and his eyes are black like charcoal. His face displays the level of filth he's accumulated in patches ranging all over his pants, like a mixture of blood and caked oil or engine grease.

Jared waits as Gristle lights his cigarette, his own appearance very contrast. He's wearing a worn black leather jacket and tattered jeans; on his arm is a piece of welded orange plating similar to Gristles that's strapped on and across his chest. His hair is the same cut, but only half the length and black, and on his face, instead of an accumulation of filth, is white tribal face paint illustrating something resembling a skull. It's so stark against both his dark pigment and the lighting in the room that when he speaks, she almost can't see the skin behind the makeup.

"Lucky me," Gristle mumbles with the smoke billowing out between his lips, he grabs Jared's arm to steady himself as he leans in and presses the end of his smouldering cigarette to his, lighting it with a second or two of contact, "Those other assholes get to be your guinea pigs."

"The fuck do you care?" Jared exhales smoke sporadically as he barks.

Gristle crosses the room to a metal desk sitting under a large open window overlooking the factory floor, next to the large computer terminal sitting in the center he unloads a handful of ammunition from his front side pocket and pours them into a messy pile, they look like a collection of random types to be sorted, "Just feels like a matter of time, soon you'll run out of them and decide to slip a little something into ole' Gristle's morning bourbon as contingency."

"You fuckin' idiot, you really think I'd risk killin' you?" Jared marches up and smacks a hand on the desk next to him, cigarette in his fingers, and points out the window to nothing specific, "I got these fuckers linin' up for the shit I give out, I can call in dozens of 'em with the promise of free chems, but you're the only fuckin' person around here I don't wanna string up like Christmas lights!"

Gristle grinds something into the desk under the palm of his glove, "Yeah, I'm real fucking honoured, Jared."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Jared snaps, "I'm tellin' you I trust you enough that I ain't gonna shoot you up fucking sideways and you get all fuckin' twisted!"

Gristle turns to face him, "Funny, you said you trusted Lonnie too."

"Lonnie was a fucking cunt," Jared fires back immediately.

"Yeah, 'cause she wouldn't fuck you, right?" Gristle's voice glowers, "That what you're going to say about me when I'm dead, too? _Gristle was a fucking cunt, I always hated that asshole_?"

Jared snarls and throws his fist up in a flash, punching Gristle across the face with the heavy slap of flesh. The smoke that had been hanging the man's mouth flies across the room and smothers against a pile of shattered ceramic. Carolyn finds herself flinching back as an empathy response as Gristle doesn't so much as react, as he mechanically receives the blow like he'd been trying for it.

The other man pushes himself from the desk and paces back across the room, running a hand over his forehead back across his short dark Mohawk, smearing his face paint in the process but not paying it much mind. His smoke is reduced to a mashed glob of paper and tobacco, he tosses it to the ground and finally turns back to Gristle, speaking in cold and reserved tone, "All I told you to do was nab the old bitch and bring her back here, I don't expect you to fuckin' like it, and I didn't ask for your fuckin' opinion. Get outta here and do your fuckin' job."

Carolyn can hear Gristle exhale from where she is, and it sounds like a low growl. She fully expects a retaliation, in fact she pulls herself into a smaller ball in preparation, ready for the other man to lunge out and attack, but all Gristle does is open his palm from its white knuckled fist and tap the desk next to the pile of random bullets. He then straightens himself back up and rubs his jaw where he'd been struck.

"I'll have her here before dark," He states lowly, not waiting for a response before he exits the first room and crosses the next quarter platform into another adjoining office.

As his heavy footfalls descend the stairs and fade into the expanse of the factory, the room is plunged into the quietest silence that Carolyn has ever experienced; she eyes Jared cautiously, waiting hesitantly for him to react, or move, or do anything that doesn't include glaring at an old poster plastered to the wall in ribbons of moldy coloured paper.

Finally, he turns his head to look directly at Carolyn. That single unwavering acknowledgement of her presence is enough to freeze solid all the blood in her body.

He turns and tucks his thumbs in the leather belt roped through the rungs of his jeans, for a moment he just studies her, eyeing her up and down with a sharp glare of intelligence, Carolyn can feel her skin prickle even under the fabric of the Vault suit. She doesn't move a muscle, she doesn't dare to, she's only thankful that her body is totally covered by the stark shade of artificial blue, even if it's tight enough to leave little to the imagination. Even with that little reassurance, she still feels, under his gaze, that she's wearing nothing at all.

"I don't want you tryin' anything stupid, _got it?_ " He finally sneers and lifts a hand to jab at the ground under where she's sitting, "You stay right fuckin' there. Don't _move_ , don't _talk_ , don't even fucking _breathe_. I don't even wanna fuckin' _know_ you're there, and I ain't got a problem tossing you to the wolves in the basement if you pull any shit. I don't want you here, and if I'm lucky, you won't be for very long."

Carolyn stares up at him with wide and terrified eyes, Jared raises his brow and inclines his head expectantly awaiting her acknowledgement, " _You got it, bitch?!_ "

She flinches back and nods quickly, her hair falling askew in her face as she does.

Jared lets out a guttural and disgusted scoff, "You vaulties are fuckin' soft. The Commonwealth's gonna tear you apart, bitch. Just wait 'til the boss gets a hold of you and you won't look so fuckin' scared by a half decent nab."

Carolyn watches as he turns to the metal desk and swipes off the pile of bullets directly into the trash can next to the desk, along with a torn sheet of yellow stained paper and half a pencil. He then turns to walk in the direction where Gristle disappeared. She listens intently to the sound of his footfalls as they recede, but don't fade. It sounds like he stops in the next adjoining office from across the other metal platform.

For a moment, all Carolyn can do is sit in silence as the total reality of her situation hits her, she first looks down to her legs bound by silver duct tape in three different places, her ankles, calves, and thighs. On the right side of her Vault suit, there's mud smeared from her knee all the way up her hip and what she can see of her arm, dried and cracking in most of the affected area. She can't remember falling in the mud at any point, which worries her as much as not being able to remember what had happened to get her to this point.

All she can recall is last night, what she hopes is only last night, she's standing at the door of her old home unable to take more that a single step inside, wanting so badly to turn around and close the door behind her to shield what had become of it. She remembers Codsworth giving her that Holotape, the one with Nate's writing on it that turned her stomach into stone. She had put it in her pocket, something she'd been wearing over her Vault suit, an over coat, or a jacket? Did she take it off?

There's a flash, a burst of something yellow and electrical, something startling, but everything after that is a blur; she can't remember Codsworth following her back to Rosa's house, or Don past watching him curl up on the floor near the door on a makeshift sleeping bag and falling to sleep with apparent relative ease, something she recalls envying in her numbed state.

This begs the question of where they are. She knows neither of them would have given her up without a fight, what if something awful happened to them that resulted in her kidnapping? The very notion terrifies her far more than her predicament; her panic is rising back into hysteria. She begins to twist her legs against her restraints, curling the tape into an ugly wad that further seals her binds. She muffles a cry into the tape across her mouth, sweat and spit coating her lips and leaking the taste of the chemical glue into her mouth. Her arms are pinned at her sides with another length of tape around her torso and under her breasts, her forearms bound square to each other against the small of her back with an angle that aches in her shoulders.

Immediately she begins scanning the room for anything sharp, only then realizing that everything passed the doorway onto the metal grated platform is blurry, she tries to blink away the haze, but she quickly remembers her vision impairment following the absence of her glasses. Considering how she got here, they could have easy fallen off while she was unconscious.

She mutters a desperate groan under the tape, twisting her upper body to find some form of give in her binds but to no avail. All it does is reawaken the burning ache across her back and prompts her to stop struggling the moment it builds to an unbearable peak.

Falling back limp against the floor, she squeezes her eyes shut. She's bound so secure that, even in the best case scenario where she'd find something like a knife; she would have no means to cut the tape away without help. There has to be something she can do, she can't just lie here helpless when she doesn't know if her friends are alright.

In that moment, she can't conceive a plan, all she finds herself doing is allowing hot tears to pool and run down the corners of her eyes and into her hair.

Outside of Corvega, the blue steel door leading directly onto the street bursts open and almost tears from its rusted hinges in the process, immediately following, an angry lieutenant strides out onto the road. The clouds are starting to rumble overhead with green and gaseous radiation, a clap of lightening ignites the distant trees under the mountains. Even after the sunny morning he had to sweat through, there's one hell of a storm coming and he'd better get his ass moving if he doesn't want to bunk down for the afternoon in an old bus or under a bridge. Those ferals always shadowed weather like this and he doesn't feel like dying tonight. Damn weather is so fucking moody.

Gristle marches out onto the road leading into Lexington like the trip here didn't totally wipe him out and warrant a meal, drink, and a good night's sleep. He didn't really expect Jared to listen to him about stopping all the shit he's pulling with those experimental chems, he was hoping for some kind of reassurance, but all he got was Jared being the same fucking asshole as per usual.

What frustrates Gristle the most is how fucking worried he is about him, at this rate he's been using the drugs himself too and he's going to get himself killed if he doesn't find the answers he's looking for. That's a whole new can of bullshit that Gristle doesn't even want to touch, he puts no stock in fortune tellers or anything in the like, but Jared believes it so feverishly he's going crazy as a result. Maybe if he just gets the old bitch to Corvega, he'll find his answers and things will go right back to normal.

After Lexington, Gristle heads Northwest up the road alone, the people who'd followed him up to the factory in the first place had been left behind to make sure that the exchange happened with no complications. The delivery was behind schedule, but the Triggermen had rejected everyone before this Vault Dweller on account of decent taste. Gristle didn't give two shits because all women look the same to him. This vaultie though, she looked good enough that even he would have looked twice at her, even if the little bitch managed to get him good when he swiped her, gave him a bloody nose and a gash on his arm. For someone that looked so fresh out of the Vault, she could put up one hell of a struggle. He doubts those trilby hat motherfuckers will say no this time, but they'd better keep her in restraints if they know what's good for them.

The time constraint for returning to Concord isn't urgent, so he plans to stop by the Diner he passed on the way out for some grub, however when he gets within five minutes of the town he finds that it's real damn quiet up the road. He expected to hear some yelling, a few shots firing into the air by a few of 'em fucking around, but there's nothing besides the howling of wind through the tree's that whips leaves against his metal chest armour. With the way weather is acting too, he doesn't want to leave it to chance. Not that he believes in signs or omens, but he's got a real bad feeling in his gut.

Could be they finally took care of the settlers and were packing in for the storm, they better not have killed off that old hag, if Gristle hopes to help Jared at all she's his ticket.

Against the wind, it takes several minutes to make it up to the town, but the second he steps out into the street where his crew set up barricades next to some of the old streetlamps and vehicles, he knows that some serious shit went down while he was gone. Down the length of the road all he can see is blood splattered across the cement for its entire distance, the dozens of bodies in view belonging to his crew, all lying out to rot in the open air.

Standing in the intersection in front of the Museum where they'd trapped the settlers, Gristle steps down the road and can finally see the extent of the carnage in a mixture of disbelief and enraged confusion, they aren't just dead; the bodies are in pieces. Plastered to the buildings as high as the second floor windows, chunks of red gore, both remnants of tattered limbs with protruding bone, and the linings of bloated intestines paint the old wood like holiday decorations. Smeared across the road, becoming the new layer of concrete, are the bits that hadn't stuck to anything vertical. The only things distinguishable amidst the deep scarlet ooze are the weapons and armour pieces they'd been wearing before the battle.

A billow of wind from the impending storm runs up the length of the street, the stench of death hits Gristle like a punch, it's not a smell he's unfamiliar with, but the blend of both that and the sight before him curls his stomach like he hasn't experienced in decades.

There's no way in hell any of those settlers could have done this much damage while he was gone. Their main defence had been a laser musket from the balcony above him, not whatever had sliced up his men into ribbons now hanging on the pre-war shops like Halloween decorations. This was the work of something a hell of a lot more aggressive than a few trapped and desperate people.

Gristle suddenly regrets not bringing any more men with him on the way back.

Stepping back from the gore, he carefully pulls out his shotgun, listening to the howling of wind through the old buildings. The clouds overhead are beginning to swirl with supercharged radiation, rain swelling and wafting the scent petrichor through the air around him. Strangling the sun from its position above him, chilling the atmosphere and prickling his skin with a shiver that crawls up his neck like a large multi-limbed insect. He resists the impulse to reach back and smack the skin effected. Instead he continues to walk backwards towards the museum, stepping over any carnage that's under his heel, scanning the rooftops overhead for movement. A distant howl bellows, sounding like a ghostly moan, but only increases as a single approaching gust of wind funnels down the street towards him, carrying with it leaves and the stench of the innards of his men.

 _ **BAM.**_

Gristle hollers out in surprise, spinning on heel to shoot with an inaccurate stumble, the source of the alarming sound and his inevitable target being a door of the museum that had slammed shut by the force of the wind storm.

Emitting a frustrated growl, he throws his arms down and circles a few short laps to shake off the jitters, cursing aloud at his own nerves getting the best of him. He marches up to the door as it swings loosely on its hinges, grabbing the flaking wood and slamming it back shut on its frame. Immediately, he jerks his hand away, the sight of dramatic damage sending his stomach into a writhing ball of fear. Four large gouges rake the splintered wood, diagonal and stretching from one corner of the door to the other, as wide as the palm of his hand and so deep that there's small fractures in the wood that visibly display the inside of the building. The door is in one piece by nothing more than splinters, one more hit with his shotgun, or another strong gust of wind and the door would have shattered.

If he were any kind of sensible man, he'd turn on his hide and sprint back up to Corvega, let Jared know that the old broad is dead along with the rest of his men. Even if he hadn't seen her body, if the thing that attacked his men had gotten in, she and the rest of those fucking settlers should be hanging in pieces off the rafters. The issue stands, however, that Jared needs her, and this means that Gristle needs her too. He'll need to make sure she's dead or grab some kind of evidence. Hell, maybe the thing is long gone and he can also grab that cowboy's fucking hat while he's at it.

"You owe me one Jared," Gristle snarls.

With a preparatory inhale, he pulls it open again with the long eerie whine of its hinges. He lets the barrel of his shotgun poke through first as he observes the first few feet of the museum floor; initially it's more of those same claw marks, but shallower and less aggressive. Around the trail, leading up the wall and pillars supporting the first floor balcony are sporadic patterns of deep grading bullet holes shredding the wood like paper, the cause being what looks like some serious firepower.

Above him, the shattered glass top ceiling still open to the dark green clouds pooling overhead strangle any light trying to make its way through and casting deep ominous shadows over most of what Gristle can see aside from what's being lit by a single overturned lantern sitting at the base of a right side pillar. However, the crackled glass containing its small burning flame casts up spidery shadows against the wood of the large wooden toll gate, making any practical visibility difficult.

What he does see, as his eyes follow the trail of score marks and bullet holes, are streams of dark ooze that appear to source from a large dark shadow sitting atop the first story balcony overlooking the top of the toll gate. With the reflection of a dim orange glow, the ooze appears to have the same appearance and consistency of warm tar as it pools at the walls base.

Gristle approaches, listening to the deep groans of the building shifting against the howl of wind, waiting to hear anything that would indicate he isn't alone. He first picks up the lantern with a rusted handle that squeaks when it moves, and turns the dial to increase the flame size and brighten the room around him.

He turns to inspect the tar-like ooze on the wall, but spots something hanging just over the top of the wooden gate. Squinting, he lifts the lantern to see the blackened limb of something large and reptilian, the texture viscous and scaled with foot long claws protruding from its toes.

A single clap of lightening suddenly bursts directly overhead through the open ceiling, and casts light into every blackened corner of the exposed building, lasting only for a second or two of continuous claps that illustrate the beast hanging against the balcony with sudden horrifying clarity. A large Deathclaw in mid-climb to reach the second floor balcony with high reaching limbs now dangling limp with the perch of wood impaled through its leg and chest, the source of the tar-ish liquid. Its head hanging down and out of view, but its large curved horns place the silhouette into completion.

Gristle emits another startled scream and clambers backwards, his internal alerts blaring at the sight of even an apparently dead Deathclaw, dropping the lantern in shock and raising his shotgun for a kill shot before he trips on the two or three steps leading onto the higher bit of stage flooring. He fires a round directly upwards, splintering a flag pole and piercing its pre-war flag, before the weight of his armour sends him directly onto his back with a noisy slam.

He scrambles back, getting one or two meters away from the toll gate before he pauses, waiting, and realizing that the ten foot irradiated lizard isn't moving a muscle even after he'd made all the noise in the world. Carefully, Gristle gets back up to his feet, eyeing the bits he can see in the light of his abandoned lantern, waiting for it to twitch or gargle, to do anything to indicate it's alive or not.

 _ **PING!**_

Gristle _shrieks_ , bounding upwards in a graceful spring of terror as the flag pole he'd accidentally shot hits the ground within inches of his left foot. He sprints out of the Museum, forgetting the six steps leading up to the door and crumples the second his outstretched foot hits the pavement.

Scraping up his right arm and socking his skull against the unforgiving surface, he rolls once to compensate the momentum and then stops belly up, facing the sky with his shotgun locked against his chest in a vice grip. For a long minute, through the ache of the fall, he just stairs wide eyed as the sky churns above him and at this point is absolutely laughing at him, his temple begins pulsing with a mixture of fear adrenaline and total unmitigated rage.

He isn't a fucking coward, no way in hell. He ain't about to let some god damned dead mutated lizard, fucking wind storm slamming a fucking door, or a _god damned fucking flag pole_ , stop him from getting his fucking job done.

God, he's starting to sound like Jared.

Gristle hoists himself to his feet and storms back up the stairs. He boots the door against the twist of the hinges and sends the unstable wood flying, splinters disappearing into lobby of the museum. Back inside, he also kicks the flag pole away as hard as he can, send that into another corner of the left end of the room.

He comes to a slow stop just in front of pools of blood the beast is still seeping, gazing up at what he can see through the soft glow of the lantern. It's fucking dead alright, and judging from the stench, it's been dead for hours now. Those settlers let this fucking thing take care of his men, and then they stood back and finished it off with some kind of heavy gun they found. Gristle can't wait to get his hands on the lot of them; he's going to make them wish he had been there while they let the Deathclaw tear them apart.

Gristle growls low, turning his head back towards what he reduced the door to, those bastards have been heading North since Lexington, and there's only one place that he knows of that's further up the road. Those old pre-war houses where he found that Vaultie and her boyfriend, if he were a settler, that's where he'd go for shelter from the storm.

Sanctuary Hills.


	7. Concord Conquered

It was quiet fast after the remaining settlers had finally gotten comfortable, as comfortable as one could get in the curators office of the Museum of Freedom. However, at that point, the lot of them found the ground in a third story room with intact walls and closable doors a lot more comfortable than anything they found from there to Lexington. As quiet as it got, it didn't stay that way for very long, not to the ones getting what little they could sleep. To Preston, those few hours of exhausted consciousness felt more like an eternity, as long and meaningless as the many nights that followed. He found he couldn't sleep much, especially that night, not when the Museum had been surrounded by the people that attacked them the minute they stepped foot in Concord.

He'd been too overwhelmed by the memories, losing everything in Quincy, and then loosing even more in Lexington. The most recent death of his only fellow minutemen, whose body they couldn't even claim as it fell on the doorstep, had been weighing heavily on him. On top of that, he was also feeling the grief of Jun and Marcy at the death of their son. His only beacon, his only small hope was the vision Mama Murphy had a few days prior about a place called Sanctuary, something that promised a peaceful last stop for all of them. However, like many of her cryptic visions, it had been difficult to decipher, especially when it had been followed by another piece that had mentioned a man in red with a heart of blue, or something along those lines.

However, at that point even with all the visions, it felt fruitless. Everyone had lost so much that it almost doesn't seem worth it if they made it.

 _If they made it._

Yeah, it hadn't been long before the Raiders attacked, a second wave after it had been clearly established that the settlers had nowhere to go, not with the front door being guarded by a few of their small army. Preston knew, at some level that seemed almost as intuitive as Mama Murphy's _sight,_ that those Raider's had been waiting for them to make a mistake like holding up in the Museum. They were like molerats in a cage, and there wasn't a damn thing Preston could do about it.

Before he'd heard the noise downstairs, he'd been sitting against the balcony door with his laser musket propped up against the window. At his right, just around the bend of the metal office desk, Jun and Marcy slept back to back, though Jun had been whimpering in his sleep, a nightmare. At his left, Sturges had propped himself up with his head resting on the arm of the bright red tattered couch Mama Murphy was told to use despite her assurance that she wasn't that old and didn't need to be coddled. Sturges' snoring was light but still stark against the total ear ringing silence.

When he initially heard the door slam open downstairs, just two stories below the room they holed up in, he hadn't thought much of it due to the wind that had started howling only moments before. He actually wasn't too sure he'd heard it to begin with, or if it had been his paranoid and fatigued imagination.

However, when the Raiders started yelling and making all kinds of noise, Preston knew in that moment that they were back, most likely to finish the job they started last night. He'd grabbed his musket and leaped up with protest aching in his muscles from head to toe, not too concerned about waking anyone in the process, and headed directly out of the office's left door.

The firefight started almost immediately afterward, they spotted Preston just as they were making their way through the exhibit and up the stairs. Splinters of wood sprayed out at him as they fired, pricking his skin as the bullet's pierced the old wood, and he had stumbled back into the cover of the office. The noise had startled the settlers awake, he yelled at Sturges to bar the door, and then headed outside onto the small balcony overlooking the main street of Concord.

He'd began the fight to keep the Raiders at bay to the best of his ability, an instinct to push back instead of letting them finish the job like he'd considered more than a dozen times in those long few hours of languid consciousness, and his exhaustion protested every second of it. Every crank of his musket felt like it required his unrelenting willpower, his entire focus in order to load the firing mechanism, and it ached in his shoulders. His hands were cramping, the cursor of his aimer shook, every shot reeled him backward, and his aim hit the targets by their feet, or over the shoulder, instead of actually piercing the bodies. Everything in his head screamed at him to keep fighting, to keep those settlers alive even if it killed him, but his entire body had been begging him to stop.

What had happened after that was a haze, Preston backed into the office to reload, to stop shaking long enough to force the burnt Fusion Cell out of his Musket to replace it. It was then that he heard the sudden horrible caterwaul of the Raiders screaming. Downstairs where they had no doubt dug themselves in waiting for the go-ahead to storm the room and slaughter the lot of them, against an unknown force that had found its way into the lobby, Raider gunfire had erupted in defence and miraculously was losing.

Someone else, _something_ else, was in the Museum, and it was fighting back.

Preston and Sturges had leaned against either entrance to the office for what felt like twenty minutes, before the last scream had come to a deadpan halt with unsettling immediacy. After a quick look of uncertainty and fear between them, Preston finally opened the door to see the extent of the carnage, and to address whoever had effectively saved the last few settlers he'd sworn to protect.

Someone who, despite the streak of total misfortune that seemed to follow the group, had shown up right as the thought of surrender had started to swarm Preston's mind like a stingwing. However, as the man stood before him, Preston doubted his assumption of sudden divine intervention. He was very pale, quite like Jun and Marcy, but his hair wasn't filthy with accumulated grime, it was lying in long black strands over his face and down his neck, soaked with a gruesome combination of blood and sweat. His matching eyes appeared from between the streaks, open wide and colorless with intensity. Across his chin and lower lip, mouth parted as he panted heavily with breathlessness after what had been both an impressive and terrifying display of battle prowess, was a large swollen and purpling gash bleeding a single stream down the length of his neck and soaking into the collar of what looked like a Vault suit. The iconic outfit had the appearance of such, only Preston had to look twice considering it hadn't exactly been blue anymore, most of that color had been soaked and dyed a blackish purple by quarts of blood that he assumed... probably didn't belong to their saviour. However, he looked like he sustained some kind of damage; a bandage made of knotted fabric tied around both his left upper bicep and in an X bind around his chest.

Matching his outfit, hanging in his right hand and suddenly very focal in Preston's attention, had been a caked and crimson machete dripping ooze onto the wooden flooring next to his foot, and in his left, a 10mm pistol in about the same condition. The blood that had gathered under both weapons soaked into the dry wood as though it had been physically thirsty.

Suddenly, the man jerked his chin up to greet him, "'Sup?"

Preston had been horribly regretful of his trustworthy nature at that point, totally stunned out of a response even before his eye caught the bodies sitting on the toll gate. Over his shoulder, Preston had first seen the Raider lying belly up with two large puncture wounds in their torso, and one through their throat, they'd fallen, or been impaled on the broken railing lining either side of the balcony. The second had been sliced up from navel to jaw and had fallen against a large crate, the contents of his torso looked to have been strewn over his blood stained cargos. The third... Preston barely looked at it before his stomach had had enough and he'd taken a step back into the office to shield it from his immediate view.

The man had noticed Preston's horror and glanced back to see the scene just as he had, he then reached up to rub the back of his hand against his nose, leaving behind a large red smear and finally he just chuckled humourlessly to himself. Turning back to Preston with a long awkward exhale, embarrassed, and without looking at his belt, tried to stick the gory machete into a loop that might have been there once, but hadn't any longer, so the weapon just slid right through his shaky fingers and landed on the floor next to his foot with a hard slap of metal.

If he'd noticed, he didn't give any indication, which had been fine with Preston because he hadn't been about to point it out.

"You guys okay?" He asked, remarkably casual as he motioned behind Preston with his equally blood soaked 10mm.

Of course, Preston had the door opened wide, and when he glanced back he could see everyone leaning over to stare with wide and horrified eyes, all except for Mama Murphy, who'd been content to pat a large German Sheppard lying next to the red couch she'd been sitting on. He for one, had absolutely no earthy idea how that big ole' pup got by him without him noticing, but he'd been used to general enigma around the old lady.

"Uh, yeah... we're okay, thanks to you," Preston slowly presses a hand to his chest, "Preston Garvey, commonwealth Minutemen."

He'd smiled at that, but it looked far less genuine than Preston would have preferred being that he could have still been a serious threat at that point. In fact, Preston had been trying to decide if he was on a combination of chems, or just absolutely scared to death.

"That's fantastic. Don Takiyo, human Popsicle, hey, you uh... you guys seen a blonde woman around?" He motioned to his shoulder with a jerk, "About-uh, this tall, wearing a blue jumpsuit like-" He looked down to motion at his apparel and pressed his blood soaked hands against his chest where the makeshift bandage was, covering more of the suit that had yet to be stained, only to notice, like Preston, that it hadn't been exactly blue anymore. The man hesitated, like he hadn't been aware of what he looked like until that very moment.

He then kind of wiped the fabric like the blood would brush off like dust, his eyes wide with the realization as he glanced back up to Preston and spoke in a half-broken voice with a nervous smile, "Um, okay, maybe not like, with the blood but... blue with yellow numbers on the back, one eleven. Maybe you saw her here... with those unsavoury-like folks?"

Preston stared at him for a minute or so, not exactly to think about whenever he'd seen a woman like that around but instead allowing the voice of Mama Murphy to pop into his head with the repeat of her vision of Sanctuary, and of the red man with the blue heart. Preston had seriously considered that this man was who she'd talked about, but as far as seeing anyone out there that wasn't a Raider, he would have remembered seeing a woman like that, "Can't say I have, I'm sorry."

"Well," Don smiled again, this time it was flat and angry, and it made Preston nervous, "Looks like I have some more work to do then, you should all stay inside until it's clear, and it will be. Give me twenty minutes."

Preston was sure of a few things by that point, but the one that took precedence in his mind told him that this man was dangerous, and despite that, they needed him bad. So, Preston found himself reach out as he turned to leave, total desperation taking a hold of him at that very moment as his hand grasped the dampened arm of his Vault suit, "Wait!"

Don stopped, turned his head, and glanced down with a high brow at where Preston had grabbed him, "Yes?"

Preston had shut the door behind him, he didn't want to hear the rest of the settlers listen to him beg, but he'd been real damn close to not really caring one way or the other, "Listen, please, we need your help."

His shoulders drooped in a dramatic sigh, "Of course you do..."

"Yeah, I'll admit it, we're desperate here, and _I'm_ desperate. We've lost more than half our group in only a few days, this was going to be it for us, and frankly, I was ready for it," Preston had felt the heat of his sorrow burning behind in his eyes, "Man, you came out of nowhere, and I'll take that as a sign that we weren't ready to go just yet. So I'm begging you, I'm _begging you_ to help us. At least until we get to Sanctuary, then you can forget us just like that, I swear."

"Sanctuary," Dons face narrowed in confusion, "What the hell do you think you're going to find there?"

"Hopefully, a place to settle," Preston admitted, "That's all we need."

"Buddy, there's nothing in Sanctuary but rusted old homes and a lot of angry ghosts."

"So what," Preston snapped a lot harsher than he intended, "The entire Commonwealth is crawling with ghosts. I'm not asking you to help us rebuild our lives; I'm only asking that you get us there."

Before the man had had any chance for a rebuttal, it was that moment that the giant irradiated lizard had crawled right out from underground like the hellish beast it was. They heard the sound from outside, what sounded like something close to an explosion. All of the previous conversation forgotten, the two had ran out onto the balcony to see what had caused all the commotion, and there it was.

A Deathclaw that stretched as tall as the second story balconies of the shops around it, longer than any of the pre-war vehicles Raiders had been scrambling to hide behind. It looked black against the sun, eyes glowing red, and claws as long as his Musket. As it stretched up to view its new surroundings, his jaw opened and a long black tongue slithered out, tasting the air and finding it ripe with prey.

An explosive growl erupted from its throat, kicking up dust from around its feet, and from beside Preston, Don exhaled a long shaky breath, "Oh, fuck me."

Preston still had a hard time trying to process exactly what had happened. Somewhere along the line, Don must have made the decision to help them out, or else he would have just taken off at the sight of it. They scrambled up to the roof, somewhere they could buckle down and wait for the beast to finish its rampage, let it stalk off with blood soaked claws and a full belly. Until Don saw Preston and Sturges' contingency plan that hadn't quite gotten the full run down into execution, the suit of T-45 power armour.

The rest was... something else. Preston found that his faith on the matter had seriously paid off, at least for the quiet happened, when the beast hung limp over the toll gate with one of its bayoneted hands sitting inches deep in the balcony of the second story, Preston watched as Don, panting heavily in the suit of armour just... stared at it, almost face to face.

Preston found that it had been pretty easy to convince him to tag along after that.

Now, the group of settlers walk northwest up the road and out of Concord, all experiencing varying degrees of quiet, uneasy and cautious. Behind them, a large and mildly damaged suit of power armour shadows the group, keeping watch at their six as Preston takes the lead. He found that even though Don had proven himself not only capable of dealing a significant amount of carnage with nothing but a 10mm and a machete, but watching him take out that 10 foot tall irradiated lizard with a suit of power armour and a Minigun, now that gave him every right to be nervous, especially now that Preston had openly invited him to join them to Sanctuary.

Sturges matches his pace with Preston, trying to look casual as he does so, and speaks lowly, "You uh... y'surelettin' him keep that armour was a good idea there, boss?"

Preston chances a glance back at the armour, he can't tell behind the visor if he notices, "No," Preston admits, giving Sturges a small unsure smile, "But I'm hoping that if he wanted us dead, he would have let that Deathclaw finish the job."

"Sure, sure..." Sturges clears his throat, "I just don't like the way his eyes lit up like Christmas when he found the suit, is all."

"I think after that thing crawled up out of the sewer, he had plenty reason to be excited."

Sturges laughs, "Yeah, but there's ' _thank god, a way out of this_ ' excited, and then there's ' _seven year old boy got the bicycle he's always wanted'_ excited. I'm pretty sure that maniac actually _bounced_ when he saw it."

"He saved our lives, didn't he?" Preston retorts, "And maybe this group could use a little enthusiasm."

"Well, _forgive me_ ; I thought I was plenty enthusiastic," Sturges scoffs in mock offence.

Preston grins, and then nudges him with an elbow, thankful for the opportunity to be a little playful, "Not while you were cowering up on that rooftop with us you weren't."

"Oh, that's another thing, I'm pretty sure he was laughing too," Sturges shoves him back, "It was kind of hard to hear through the Minigun, but I was _damn_ sure he was cacklin'!"

"Now you're just making stuff up. Come on man, give him a chance."

Sturges turns to look at the hulk of power armour as it checks the perimeter of the group, keeping his eyes on the rocks coming up on their left that would make for a hell of a vantage point for anyone lying in wait. Sure, he has plenty of reasons to be apprehensive of their new friend, but the fact of the matter is, he helped them, and now they have a chance to settle down somewhere safe.

Ahead of them as they pass an old Red Rocket truck stop, strangled to the top with Commonwealth greenery looking to reclaim the spot as a part of nature, Preston spots an old bridge stretched across a shallow river and finally, the wreckage of pre-war homes still coloured bright even under the sudden coverage of clouds that interrupted the earlier morning sun, looks like this is it, and not a minute too soon, those clouds look like they're going to roll in one hell of a storm.

They pass an old pre-war suburban sign reading, ' _Welcome to Sanctuary Hills'_ , the blue house at their immediate right being mostly intact compared to the collapsed one on the opposite side of the street. Covered in rust and pocked with holes, but standing upright with the under structure more or less intact. On its driveway is a makeshift cooking fire surrounded by a row of cinderblocks, the embers long since burnt out and abandoned for god knows how long.

Overhead, large trees lining the forest behind the westward homes billow against the wind, moaning low as they sway back and forth in contrast to the clouds, and pressing against the rusty metal framework of the homes too close. Through the houses themselves, the wind sounds more like a pained groan, like someone deep inside the house was dying from injury, sickness, or starvation. The last little cries as the muscles tense in protest to organs shutting down one by one.

Coming up on the left, through a dark glasses window of an old blue house, Preston's eyes lock into the overshadowed blackness within, partially hidden by vibrant green and red plants, vines, and a few small blossomed flowers despite the fall season. The volume of wind grows and finally overtakes his senses. A single groan of a dying man turns into three, into five, increasing until it twists unfurled into an uncountable mass, men, women, and children, screaming from somewhere unreachable. A throng of hands clamber within the shadow, a formless mass, outwardly grasping onto anything within reach, they're grabbing Preston's jacket, grabbing his arms, his legs, begging and crying for help.

"You alright there, boss?" Sturges' voice snaps Preston back, his hand lying heavy on his shoulder and ultimately grounding as the Minuteman turns to his friend. He can suddenly hear Don's voice in his head, _a lot of angry ghosts_ …

"Yeah," Preston gives his head a shake, and rubs the bridge of his nose, "It'd be nice to get a decent night's sleep."

Sturges gives him a pat, "Well, you might get the chance now that we're here. It's a real nice place we got. It's far enough out of the way; we got an immediate water source, lots of old houses and debris. I think we could make a serious go of this."

"That's what I like to hear," Preston turns to a yellow house at their left as they climb up the incline of the street, just opposite of the one he'd been staring at, and see's what looks like a workshop set up with all the fixings, plenty of space for weapon and armour modification, and a power armour station. He turns to address the settlers, seeing Jun and Marcy immediately, but finding Mama Murphy and Don standing at the base of the incline speaking to each other unintelligibly with a happy dog at their side, "Alright folks, I'd like you all to take a look around, see if you can find any supplies. We'll make this house our HQ until we're better fortified. Try not to go too far, there's a storm coming."

"This is it?" Marcy growls, "This is the so-called 'Sanctuary' we were promised?"

"Look, it ain't exactly luxury," Sturges argues, "Otherwise we'd have to fight off some pretty mean competition."

"He has a point, Marcy," Jun adds timidly.

Marcy crosses her arms and turns to walk back down the incline, "Whatever, I'm going down to get water, try and find us something to eat, Jun."

"Uh, okay," He mutters as she stalks off, already out of ear shot. He then turns back to smile apologetically at Preston, "Sorry…"

"Don't worry about it, let's just focus on getting set up," Preston pats Jun on the shoulder, he's used to Marcy being… difficult, though after the death of their son, she's been especially nasty. Jun always seems to be at the brunt of her wrath for the majority of it, though he doesn't seem to mind more than he tries to help everyone understand what she's going through. He's a selfless man, and to be honest, Preston really admires him for it.

Overhead, the clouds first deciding to clump together into a mass of dark off-green plumage are now rolling together and rumbling deep within with supercharged radiation. It rained only the other day, it feels like too soon that another storm should roll in, though Preston counts his blessings that it isn't any of that noxious radioactive fog, or a blinding red sand dust storm. However, a storm of this calibre harbours its own dangers; the radiation usually brings about a few small packs of ferals that follow the light show, dismissing the rads in the rain, being inside is the best course of action until it blows over.

Preston approaches Don about fifteen minutes after he finishes speaking with Mama Murphy, having an opportunity to take a quick look around and examine any exposed regions of their general perimeter beforehand. He's is gently exiting the damaged framework of the T-45 power armour and loading it up onto the large yellow station, Preston stands a respective distance away as the man glances over at him, hands busy trying to twist and yank out the armours power core.

"So, let me guess, this is the part where you thank me profusely, give me some kind of reward, and then send me on my way, right?" Don finally pops the core out with a jerk and then grunts through his teeth, pressing a hand against where the bandage is on his chest, he's injured, that much Preston knows, though, those injuries sure didn't stop him from unleashing hell on the raiders, "I think a statue in town square will do just fine."

Preston hesitates, watching as the man glances over the large battery, and then sets it on the ground next to his feet. All previous shock and horror completely disappeared from his features; he looks like just another person, "Look, I know you didn't have to help us, and I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am-"

"I was kidding, man," Don holds up a hand to Preston with a light chuckle, "You don't need to grovel. If you build a statue in my honour, it'll just go to my head, no one wants that, trust me, pretty soon it would turn into ritual sacrifice and then where would we be?"

"Uh… okay," Preston bounces his musket in his hands a little as he watches the man inspect the extent of the damage on the suit. Usually the Commonwealth offers people in it for themselves, for whatever reason Don ultimately decided to help, convenience or otherwise, but everyone always wants something in return, "Well, if you don't want gratitude, what do you want?"

Don sighs heavily, looking somewhat defeated as he gazes at the armour, before he pulls a satchel over his shoulder that looks like a handbag made out of a pair of old pre-war pants and picks up the power core again, "To be on my merry way, I have a friend to un-kidnap," He tosses the core into the air at Preston for him to catch, which he does with an ungraceful fumble, "Core's burnt out, needs a little work, but your handy man should be able to fix it up. Take care of 'er, she's a veteran."

"Whoa, hang on a sec," Preston steps in front of him as he tries to pass, "Wherever you're going, you won't get very far before the storm kicks up, and trust me, you don't want to be out in the open when it does."

"A little rain and wind, I've earned worse," Don goes to pass him again, but he's intercepted a second time.

"I don't want to assume anything, but you're in pretty bad shape, look like you could use a doctor," Preston continues, "The nearest one is probably in Diamond City, and you won't get there _before dark_ let alone before the storm hits."

Don arches his brows, "Oh, doctors are still a thing here? That's good to know."

"Well yeah, but they aren't going to do you much good if you get torn apart by ferals," Preston says plainly.

"Ferals," He nods thoughtfully, "Boy, does that sound unpleasant."

Preston stares at him in disbelief, "Wow, you really don't care, do you?"

Don then smiles wide and sarcastic, "Oh, I care plenty, believe me," He sighs, "Look, I know you're trying to get me to stick around, for whatever reason, strength in numbers, you need a heavy hitter, or maybe I just look that good in a Vault-suit, I'm flattered, but, the longer I wait around here hanging out with you and the ghosts, the more I risk the safety of my friend."

Preston sets his jaw and closes his eyes, he begins to think about a month ago, a time that feels so much farther away than it is, when the Minutemen were a true force and were able to do real good in the Commonwealth, when Preston felt proud to be a Minuteman, before all of the betrayal, and all of the misfortune that followed. If the opportunity arose, he would rebuild in a heartbeat. He's not so sure if they'll ever be what they were before but he wants to try, and that to him is profound considering only hours ago he was ready to give into despair.

"Look, I can't help these people on my own," Preston admits lowly, ashamed to confess to his own shortcomings, "You saw where my leadership got us, but you… you can do the job proper, we need someone like you. The Minutemen… _they_ need someone like you."

"Dude, you don't even know me," Don raises a brow.

"Yeah, well… maybe trusting you to save our lives is good enough for me," He smiles lightly, "To be honest, everyone I ever knew that could do the job justice is gone. Maybe asking a stranger for help isn't such a bad thing, if I could sweeten the deal besides telling you you'd be helping a lot of people survive out here, you'd also get support from anyone loyal to the cause, and eventually, maybe even an army?"

Don's smile fades as Preston speaks, and he glances off in serious consideration. It's a long minute where he doesn't say anything, just purses his lips comically as taps a hand against his leg, "If I were to say yes, I'd have some conditions."

Preston's heart soars in indefinable relief, "Name them."

"When I get my friend back, we're going to need a place to stay, for starters," Don motions out to the house across the way where Preston had that god-awful sleep deprived vision, "That's her house right there, the one two doors down on the same side is mine. Don't touch them, not even for salvage."

Preston eyes him curiously, wondering why they had already made claim to two old houses that they'll probably have to tear down for scrap and salvage, "Okay."

"Also, I get a cool name, like Commander, or something."

"Well, the leader of the Minutemen always held the rank of General," Preston offers.

"Ooh, General, I like it!" He exclaims, "General Don Takiyo, huh, sounds like a Red Commie commanding official, yikes."

Preston blinks, waiting for a serious request, but he's almost sure at this point that it won't happen, "Is that all?"

Don hesitates, and then points his thumb over his shoulder to the damaged power armour, "Can… I keep _that_?"

"Sure, that won't be a problem, but-"

"Aweso-ome!" He sings tonelessly and then turns to plant a kiss on the breast plate of the armour, "Baby, I'm going to make you look _bad-to-the-ass_!"

"Okay, so," Preston quickly interjects before it gets any weirder, "Before you agree, you should know that we're going to get Sanctuary up and running before anything serious happens, maybe if you talk to Sturges we can get your help-"

Don suddenly turns back and points at something behindPreston's shoulder with wide eyes, "Hoh my god, what is that-?!"

When he turns to look, alarmed, Don immediately skirts around him, speed walking up the road before Preston has a chance to figure out the man pulled one over on him. He throws his arms open in exasperation, giving up on trying to catch him at this point,"Hey, come on man, seriously?"

"Keep your hat on, Garvey, I'll do it," He skips around to face him as he retreats, "I'll be back in a few days. You guys get started without me!"

Preston watches him disappear down the road, he's not totally sure that was the smartest move, he's not even sure if he should feel at all relieved that he took the job, but looks like there goes the Minutemen's new General, and Preston is pretty sure he's skipping. Mama Murphy better have been right about her vision, and hopefully he was right about interpreting it.

Sturges appears with an arm full of broken and dried tree branches, collecting for a fire when the rain starts pouring, and comes up to stand beside Preston as he stares down the road. He glances to where Preston is looking, and then looks to Preston with a half hearted and sympathetic smile, "Now, I couldn't help over hearin' you give him clearance to boss us all around. Probably should have gotten a good night's rest before making a decision like that."

"Well, maybe the lack of sleep has me thinking clearly," Preston sighs heavily, though he hardly believes it.

"I don't know 'bout that," Sturges chuckles, "Anyway, you seen Marcy around? Jun said he couldn't find her by the river and was wonderin' if you saw her stalkin' round someone of these old houses."

Preston looks at Sturges, "No, I just checked the perimeter too; I thought she was with Jun."

"Well, crap," Sturges groans, "Maybe she went off into the woods or something, I'd better go take a look."

"Don't take long, and send Jun up here, we need to get everyone settled for when the storm decides to start kicking out rads," Preston says.

As Sturges tosses the wood onto the cement driveway, Preston glances back upwards to watch the clouds churn and rumble, lighting up internally with muffled flashes of lightening. A single drop of water breaks, and splashes onto Preston's cheek from high above. For a minute, Preston had considered the weather might actually cooperate, but as it stands, they might need to leave Marcy outside if that's where she wants to be, at least until the storm passes.

Preston isn't too worried about her, she's as tough as she is difficult, and she can handle finding a safe place to keep dry.


	8. Green Jewel

_Well, look who it is. Boy am I glad you decided to show up, for a minute there, I wasn't sure if we were gonna to make it. Don't worry, I ain't about to start thankin' you, I know you're no fan of gratitude; you're more of a fan of humility, a man of war that takes the result of his job as a reward. I've seen your work, from before the bombs, when your government made you do all those horrible things, and I saw you fight your way free after you woke up trapped in that ice box, what should have been your end, but you don't place by deaths rules, no sir._

 _Ah, I know what you're thinkin', kid. I know how I sound… but it's the chems. They give ole' Mama Murphy the sight. Been that way for as long as I can remember. Before you go on and start your doubting, there's something you need to hear. It's about your friend, the woman in blue, I know you came lookin' and only found a group of broken settlers, but you need to keep goin', because she's still out there, and she's loosin' hope._

 _Don't worry, kid, she's alright. But you need to find her, and you need to tell her, that she needs to keep goin' too, because what she's lookin' for is still out there, and he's… longing. She's going to find him, I'm sure about that. But there… there's a danger, I see… a shadow, a black winged angel casting a… darkness over her, a leader of the dead and they… they_ see _her._

 _You need to hurry kid, there's something coming for her and she won't be where she is for much longer. Take Dogmeat, he'll stick by you, show you where to go, he's…_ assigned _. Hah, I can't see who or what told him so, a stranger with a mysterious intent, but he'll fight with you now._

 _One more thing before you go, kid… this world, it ain't yours, but it sure feels a lot like the one you left behind,don't it? It might not look it, but you're better prepared than most to deal with what it throws at you, don't hesitate to show folks you're ready to do what it takes._

Rain bursts from the overhead clouds like the tear of a viscous wound, oily water coated and saturated by the after effects of nuclear fallout, apparent even after nature itself seemed to recover and adapt to the new environment. Irradiated condensation soaks everything to its very core, whipped horizontal by the wind and leaving exposed shelters useless to the brunt of its force. For Don, a storm of this calibre had been somewhat underestimated. He'd considered his situation, and ultimately regretted not taking Preston up on his offer to stay in Sanctuary until it passed. What kept him going, pressing through the wind and rain, the thunder clapping overhead and illuminating old decrepit buildings in his path, were the words that the old woman, Mama Murphy, had told him before his departure, somewhat comforting, entirely relieving, and ultimately cryptic.

How it was that she knew all those things about him, about Carolyn and her son, he'll never know, and maybe it's best that he doesn't. He figures he'll give her the benefit of the doubt and see what happens, because following a dog blindly through a violent lightning storm might in fact be the worst thing that could happen, unless of course he had ended up leading him right into the path of something scarier than a giant mutated lizard. As it stands, he hadn't expected to land on the doorstep of Boston's Illustrious Baseball Diamond through a series of empty wooden checkpoints lined with inoperable military turrets.

Don stands in the square before the old rusty green gate like a sopping wet puppy (next to a sopping wet dog), next to an old statue knocked clean into pieces, leaving only the formless torso behind, arms and head reduced to rubble at its feet. The rest of the figure appears entangled with the same red vines in Sanctuary, like the swollen veins of a human body. He recalls seeing it before the bombs, a player in mid-swing, and a proud vestige of baseball tradition now on display like a symbol of the broken ruins of Boston that surround it. Don shakes off growing shiver crawling up his back; he can only imagine what the city must look like during the day, because it looks a lot like a horror movie from where he stands, it's not quite dark enough to lose a partial view of everything nearby, but any light available to aid his travel is fading quickly. It won't be long before he's totally blind and unable to move around safely, the cloud coverage is making quick work of that.

This baseball diamond though, most likely the 'Diamond City' Preston mentioned, appears to be nothing but an old ruin of Boston that doesn't appear all that impressive. Aside from the turrets, which are dead, and the barricades, which are empty, anyone could pass this by without thinking much of it. In any case, the gate is closed, and it might stay that way until either the storm passes, or until the next morning, so unless there's a back door, he can't see himself getting inside any time soon, which means that Don may have to seek shelter elsewhere until then, which doesn't bode well for his well being. He'd taken the Med-X in small doses during his journey, every half hour or so in the two hours it took him to walk here until it was out, which was about twenty minutes ago, he's going to start hurting again really soon. If he doesn't have an infection now he's going to reach around and kiss the horse shoe in his ass.

At his side, sitting patiently waiting for Don to make up his mind instead of standing out in the rain like an idiot, Dogmeat stands up and shakes his coat dry, soaking Don's already drenched pant leg in the process. Don glances up and squints into the rain still showering a medium drizzle and then back to the dog incredulously, "You're fighting a losing battle there, buddy…"

Suddenly, movement from the shadows next to the road on his left catches his eye, the sound of shoes scraping in hurried footfalls increases until a woman in a red coat bursts out from the doorway of the closest wooden barrier. Sprinting across the gnarled pavement, almost tripping on the uneven concrete hidden in the dim light as she does, she slaps herself against the very speaker box Don was eyeing and presses the call button for several seconds as she pants feverishly.

If Don was unsure something was wrong the second she came into view, the look in her eyes as she spins a ghosted look over her shoulder, eyeing where she'd come from, certainly tells him otherwise. He watches from afar as she begins to mash the button desperately the second she doesn't get an answer from whoever is on the other side, emitting a long frustrated growl through her teeth, " _Come on, Danny, COME ON!_ "

Don throws the corner of his jacket back, the one he'd pulled from his satchel to give him a bit of insulation against the storm, to bring his sidearm into reach. Upon his approach, a new kind of anticipation begins crawling up his back as he cautiously watches the blackened road she'd come from. The woman is so busy trying to get an answer out of the speaker that she doesn't even notice Don until he's standing a few feet away, and when she does she screams so loud and sudden that he almost leaps clean out of his boots, he may have shot his leg if his finger was anywhere near the trigger of his pistol.

"Jesus, buddy!" The woman snaps, "The hell do you think you're doing sneaking around?!"

Don gathers his composure and slips right back into his military persona like it were a pair of old worn leather boots, comfortably broken in and familiar, "Ma'am, calm down, I need to know what's going on."

"I'm just out for a _god damn stroll_ in the middle of a rad storm," The woman is gripping the box with white knuckles, " _What the hell do you think is going on?!_ "

Don hums; she's as soaked as he is, even under the grey cap on her head, her long dark hair still sticks to her cheeks in clumps, and her coat, bright red in color, hangs tattered and raw to her knees like the sleeves and the hem of her pants, boots caked in mud. His first impression is a desperate escape attempt, however, aside from the wear and tear, there's nothing to indicate that whatever she'd been running from had attacked her. He'd just like to know if he should be trying as hard as she is to get somewhere safe, the road was long and suspiciously empty from Concord, so it would be about right if something where to spring from the shadows right about now. At least he knows now that there's safety behind the gate, maybe even people that don't shoot on sight.

Suddenly, from the other end of the square, a clatter of rocks and gravel makes them both jump in a way that may as well have been an outright explosion, at his side, Dogmeat's ear perk up. The woman immediately grabs Don by the arm and pulls him around the large shielded stadium tubing, out of view of the road. Don loses his footing halfway through due to the uneven ground and unceremoniously plummets right into the green metal siding with a hard slam, his shoulder and chest erupts with new, white hot pain, but thankfully he manages to crumple behind cover.

She doesn't appear to notice him lock his jaw to choke down a moan of agony; instead she's leaning fully plastered to the metal plating, almost 45 degrees sideways to peer around the corner, Dogmeat on the other hand nudges Don's face with a wet nose. He pats the pooch to reassure him that, while he is in a lot of pain, it won't kill him, at least not yet.

"God damn ferals," The woman murmurs, "I bet McDonough planed this, just my luck."

Don recalls Preston warning him about ferals, though he had forgotten to disclose what they were exactly. Instead of asking loads of questions, however, he blows a half dry lock of hair from his brow and then gently eases up to his knees. Also peaking around the corner to stare out into the square, still empty, but suddenly there's a malicious air that descends over the area. It centers at the dark doorway of the wooden barrier directly across the way, shadows feel like their spilling out like noxious fog.

Within the doorway, a flash of movement catches his eye, the shadows appear to boil and squirm, oily and alive until it all seems to halt, the sounds around him, the last bits of wind howling through the buildings, the rain still pattering on every reachable surface, even the rapid beating of his heart. An eerie ring of silence seems to greet a single pallid limb that breaches through, a hand with long claw like fingers that reach around and grip the wood for support as a long leg appears next, suddenly funnelling through the rest of its body.

Don feels his back stiffen in horror, it looks like it may have once been a person, and in fact it looks almost identical to the bodies that Don witnessed lying in the grass outside of the Vault's platform when he and Carolyn first broke through to the surface, dozens of bodies mummified by the initial blast and left to dry in the sun. Instead of only corpses waiting for burial, this one is a walking nightmare, alive, its skin appears grafted and burned into a single mass of flesh shaped only by the bones underneath, its limbs twitching and jerking as two small milky white eyes peer around the empty square.

In seconds, another joins it, only wearing the tattered remains of clothes held together by threads and buttons as it clambers passed its partner, shuffling out into the open in curious investigation. Following it is a third, and then a fourth; soon, there are eight zombie creatures stumbling around the square. The count of Don's ammo is suddenly forefront in his mind, after managing to buy another pack of ammo from a so-called diner a few minutes passed Concord, he has twenty four shots. Dogmeat begins to growl lowly, his ears flattened to his head. Don wraps an arm under his head and pats his jowl, more so for his own comfort rather than to ease the animal.

From above, the red coated woman carefully slides back into full cover, her voice a low trembling whisper as she speaks, "Okay… um… I-I have about… maybe… thirty shots with my pipe pistol, if we…"

Don slides back just as gently, making sure not to make a sound as he does, and turns to the woman who now looks extra pale next to the color of her hair. If she's as terrified as she looks, she's not going to be much help in the firefight swiftly approaching, if these things can even be killed conventionally, "Show me."

Without argument, she empties her pockets, (and she has quite a few), into Don's hands. She has nearly the same amount of shots as he does, twenty seven 0.38 rounds, a smaller calibre, but it should do the trick, "Your gun?"

"Yeah," She murmurs, her hands shaking as she holds it out to him, "Here."

Don examines the weapon, what looks like a rusty orange revolver with a two square inch plank supporting the barrel, chamber, and receiver, totally unconventional. If this is what passes for armament in this new world, it's no wonder a point blank round to the chest didn't kill him; these pot shots might just bounce right off these things.

"Okay," Don pockets all of her 0.38 rounds and makes sure her pistol is loaded, he should have enough to take them out if his aim is true, which, considering he's being effected by a substantial amount of pain and dizziness, may be a problem, "I'm going to lure them away, the second it's clear, you take off and get to high ground and wait for morning. If this place isn't answering their doorbell, chances are they won't until it's safe to come out again."

The woman stares at him for a moment, and then suddenly wrinkles her nose, "You think I'm an idiot?"

Don blinks, and then glances up from where he's kneeling, "You've given me no reason to think so, unless you suggest we should run at them screaming and on fire, then yes, that would make you an idiot."

The corner of her mouth twitches like she's trying not to smile, "Forget it! I'm not letting you take my gun, give it back."

"Lady, I'm trying to help you," He responds plainly.

"Oh yeah, a regular opportunist," She snaps, "Just gonna to take off and sell my ammo for caps, huh?! Leave me to deal with the ferals!"

For a moment, Don just stares at her in mild disbelief, and then he grins, snorting back laughter as the color in her cheeks rises into scarlet red. The woman reaches out and slaps him on the arm, against the hidden bandage wrapped around his recent injury. Don shrinks with an astounded gasp at the swell of pain, but the second he drops his guard, she lunges at him to retrieve her weapon, barely missing as he jerks it away, "By the way, you're not fooling anyone with that macho-military-bullcrap, who the hell are you calling ' _ma'am_ ' anyways?!"

 _God forbid I lend a little courtesy_.

Still down on his right knee as she's leaning over him to grasp at his outstretched arm, Don reaches up and braces his left forearm against her collarbone, shifting his weight as he swings his opposite leg around and sweeps her feet out from under her. She lets out a dry and startled gasp only a second before she hits the ground, Don leaps over to pin her in place, covering her mouth before she can say a word. He leans over just enough to see that the ferals haven't heard them yet, a god damn miracle considering how loud this woman is. He looks back down at her as she stares up at him with wide eyes, the shock of being turned ass over end taking an effect on her.

"Here's what's going to happen, okay?" Don explains gently, "I'm going to borrow your gun to help me lure the ferals away from the square, when they're gone; you're going to find somewhere safe to hide. Then, assuming I'm still alive after _selflessly_ risking my life to do so, I'm going to come back and return it to you, I'll even buy you new ammo.

"Look, I know you have no reason to trust me. I get that trusting a stranger is a big nope in this brave new world, yeah, and it's nice that it's all transparent instead of hidden behind the façade of a white picket fence," Don jerks his head to the wall at their side, near whereDogmeat watches the two, head tilted in confusion, "But here's the thing, I need to get in here, because I'm following a dog who may or may not know where my friend was taken, because she was kidnapped by a group of psychotic men dressed like leather fetish survivalists and I have no idea where she is, or if she's alive," He smiles, "I've been shot twice now, and I'm in a lot of pain, so it would be nice if you didn't fight me on this, because if you do, I'll toss you to the floor faster than a Mr. Handy could wax it. Am I clear?"

Bewildered, the woman stares up at him, and then nods shakily under his grasp.

"Great," Don smiles, "I'm going to take my hand away, and when I do, you're not going make a sound, or I might not be able to make good on my threat before hell unleashes it's fucking nuclear spawn on us."

When the woman nods a second time, Don eases himself vertical. She waits until he's kneeling in the cover of the shielded piping before she makes a move to do the same, scooting back to sit up against the green wall behind her. He can see her eyeing him carefully in his peripherals, but he doesn't pay her too much mind though, as long as she stays quiet she shouldn't be trouble.

Unless of course she decides that she didn't appreciate being strong armed and bashes his head in with a brick, and judging from how Dogmeat did nothing, he might just let her do it.

Don lightly shakes his head and then peers out from the cover to see how clear the path is from where he is to the road at his twelve o'clock; it takes a few seconds of deliberation considering how close they're getting, before he stands to make a break for the archway.

He takes two; maybe three steps into the open before the sound of something large and mechanical catches his ear, a sudden hum of an engine coming to life from silence. Don comes to a startled halt as a loud switch rings in the air, every spotlight in the vicinity, including the ones from all three road barricades ignite simultaneously, blinding him with the vicious glare. Over his head, the clicking of a powered turret suddenly blips online and begins firing; Don immediately drops to the ground and covers his head with his hands, rocks and cement jutting into his stomach and chest, but his muscles are seized.

Around him he can hear the alarmed hollow shrieks of the creatures as they're assaulted, a chorus of animalistic bellowing overwhelming the sharp impact of bullets as they shower the ground, piercing concrete and flesh with an unmistakable noise, distinctive like the sound of shattered glass. Don curls his head and watches just for an instant as one of the creatures steps out from behind the wooden barrier, a turret only a few feet away turns on its axis, and within seconds the pot shots ring in the air, tearing the body apart in chunks, reducing it to a mirror image of the baseball statue before it has a chance to even hit the ground.

Within minutes, the square is totally silent, and Don still lies on the ground staring out into the mass of carnage completely in awe of the sudden intervention. He hears Dogmeat rush out and begin to sniff at Don's face, the woman tiptoes out from the cover of the pipe shielding and walks over to stand at his side while he's begin assaulted by a large wet nose.

"You dead?" She asks.

"Nope, sorry," Don coughs out, his chest throbbing a little as the rubble under his belly grinds together in his motion to get to his feet, however, the second he does, he feels a rush of sudden dizziness that clouds his vision and throws him back into a stumble.

The woman throws her arms out to catch him before he hits the ground, "Whoa, hey, hey, hey!"

"I'm good," Don finds his balance with the extra support, "I'm good, I'm fine, hooo-boy. All this excitement must be getting to me."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you're hotter than a grilled radroach."

"Why thank you," Don turns and grins at her.

Her cheeks go red again, "I mean you have a fever, dumbass, look at you, you look like hell!"

Don touches the back of his neck; he can't tell if he's sweating or if it's the drizzle, but he's definitely warm, and nauseous, that's not good, "Hey... I don't suppose you happen to have a doctor hiding behind that gate?"

"Yeah, but Doc Sun doesn't take too kindly to outside folks with attitude," She crosses her arms with a smarmy smirk, and Don can only return her look with a forceful grin attempting to disguise his pissed off desperation.

Before he can say anything to retort, something along the lines of, ' _I was going to risk my ass trying to help you out, you massive bitch_.' The large green gate, covering the entrance of the Diamond's ticket lines, suddenly begins to move on its mechanical arms and open the way through. The sound startles both of them, but it's clear almost immediately that there was no malicious intent, a dozen people begin to file through from the other side as soon as the clearance hits about two meters. A scattered crowd of men dressed in the same uniform, wearing what looks like an entire umpire outfit with the thick front padding as makeshift armour in various stages of general disrepair, their heads covered by helmets with metal weaved into the protective grate, in their hands, they're all wielding large black assault rifles.

Don blinks in astonishment; it appears the Calvary has arrived.

One of the men on the end of the crowd almost immediately spots Don and the woman standing out in the open staring at them in awe. He approaches after spotting the mess that the defences had made of the ferals, and addresses them, "You folks okay?"

The woman huffs, snapping before Don can get a word in, "Yeah, no thanks to you. Where were you guys ten minutes ago?!"

"Calm down Piper," The guard sighs, "The storm killed a generator and knocked out all the lights in the market; our outside defences went offline, the mayor ordered us inside until it could be fixed. We didn't want to risk opening the door until the cleared the area, and by the looks of things, I'm glad we did. Damn ferals always follow storms."

"Yeah, that's just fine for everyone inside, but we almost died out here!"

The man shrugs, "Well, maybe you'll think twice next time before getting caught in a storm."

"You mean I'll think twice next time before accusing the mayor of conspiring with the Institute!" She calls at him as he turns to follow the path of three more officers, "I'm not an idiot I know he did this on purpose!"

"Oh yeah, I can't wait to see tomorrow's headline," He calls back, "This just in _Mayor McDonough controls the weather_!"

Piper growls as he disappears with a small crowd behind one of the wooden barriers, the four of them chuckling amongst each other and taking the accusation of a serious possible threat with nonchalance. Don isn't entirely sure this mayor had any intention of actually locking her out in hopes that the weather and it's spawn would take care of her, that methodology of first degree murder has way too many variables, not even really viable to ensure her death, he must not be a very smart man, one could drop a rock from the top of a building and get better results.

However, if he fully intended to kill her that way, was her accusation of his involvement with ' _the Institute'_ that severe? What's _'the Institute'_ , and is it malicious enough to cause a person in power to kill those who suspected some sort of coup?

Don sighs, of course politics would survive nuclear fallout, "Hey, If you're open to suggestions about an article title, I, personally, am a fan of, _The Mayor's McDonough't now_ , or even, _He's McDonough't this time!_ "

Piper winds back and slaps Don across the face.


	9. Delivery

There's a smell of autumn on the breeze, tree's going bare in preparation of the cold, leaves scattered by the wind onto the road in front of the Sanctuary Hills bungalow house. Squared hedges stretch from the door to the master bedroom window, flowers trimmed down under the living room window for the fall, and a polished black car sits in the driveway reflecting the morning sun, the scene is completed by a white picket fence lining each end of the backyard like the perfection of a suburban dream. From the road, it fills Carolyn's view and encapsulates her senses, the sounds around her hum pleasantly, getting louder and louder as she stares in warm hearted awe until the feeling of safety and adoration is suddenly replaced by recollection and fear. The birds in the forest lose their tune, their songs begin to scream, the wind billows and howls in her ears, slapping hair against her cheeks like razor sharp whips. The warm fall orange doorway opens with a snap of wood to reveal the darkness inside; the shadows are coiling, squirming like an eel. It begins to magnify and pull her into the doorway as the sounds around her twist into a low throaty moan of agony, the sound increasing steadily into unbearable pain.

 ** _Kill you,_** the voice growls ** _, kill you, kill you, I'll kill you, I'll fucking kill you._**

Covering her ears does nothing; the sound is inside her head, erupting like a bright yellow flash of an electrical explosion. She shuts her eyes against the brunt of the shadows, she doesn't want to see what's inside, but the moment she does, everything goes silent.

When she opens her eyes wide in alarm, she's staring at the rusted wall of the office overlooking the factory floor of the Corvega Assembly Plant. She'd curled against it to ease the pain in her head and at some point had fallen asleep, though she can't recollect ever closing her eyes long enough to do so. It wasn't restful, if anything, she feels ill from having slept at all. In some of her basic first aid training, in university and high school, if someone suffered a mild or severely concussion, that person should remain conscious to avoid the risk of a coma.

...And she managed to doze off anyways. At least it doesn't seem to be as severe as she initially considered, though it would be a convenient explanation for the gap in her memory.

Carefully she tests it, thinking back before she'd fallen asleep, when she'd witness the spat between the two raiders... Gristle, that's what he called the man who carried her here and Jared must be the one that's in charge, the one with the white face paint.

With a shift, reawakening all of her aches and pains, Carolyn pulls herself away from the wall; her forehead and cheek bones now stone cold from resting against the steel. Her head had been aching terribly even before she had started to cry, and had apparently found the cool relief soothing enough to doze off to. However, now her body is cold to the bone and her left arm from shoulder to fingers is completely numb, at least her headache has reduced into a dull hum and she can think properly.

She considers rolling over and sliding her way onto the mattress on the other side of the wall to try and get rest while everything in the assembly plant is quiet. Conserving her strength to wait for an opportunity to get away should be her priority, but Jared's threat still rings clear in her mind. He was clear that it wouldn't be in her best interest to make a move to do anything but sit still and wait for... whatever it was that they intend to do to her.

Before falling asleep, after her hot tears and choking sobs threatened to break through her terrified silence, she'd been pressing her sweaty and throbbing forehead against the steel wall trying to ease the ache. Concentrating on not crying hard enough to snuff her nose and cut off her air supply, she'd begun to listen. Like a calming trance to distract her, she could hear voices in the assembly plant over the hum of overhead machinery, the vibrations of the floor under her as something larger powered the lights and defences in the plant.

Something had arrived; she could tell by the way Jared had left with haste, leaving only one man behind to keep an eye on her. The sharp silvery flick of a knife echoed in the space, like he'd been idly picking his nails, carving something, or simply reminding her that she shouldn't try anything stupid. She only tried to steady her racing heartbeat as it ticked on like a clock; she'd counted each second in her mind, recalling counting to twenty two minutes since Jared had left.

Now, she's not sure, turning her head to where the Raider had settled down, his arms are crossed and he's leaning against the frame of the doorway. He's wearing a kind of burlap sack over his head with a mass of breathing tubes, the eyes cut open like the tiny piercing beads of corn field scarecrow. It's splattered brown with what could either be mud, oil, or dried blood. She can tell by the light muffled snore that he's asleep, napping in the quiet like she had, though now she wishes sincerely she hadn't, now she has no idea how much time has passed, she may have lost her opportunity to escape.

Suddenly from across the floor of the plant, she hears the slam of a door that jerks the snoozing raider awake, Carolyn immediately feigns her own unconsciousness, tucking her head down against the floor as her heart begins to thunder. Another set of footfalls stop about midway to the platform, the raider turns on his chair with a noisy groan of wood, and in her view he peaks over through the window over Jared's computer terminal and nods soundlessly to whoever had entered.

He clears his throat, and after standing, he takes a moment to stretch his nap from his muscles, something Carolyn immediately envies. The second he turns to approach her, she shuts her eyes, and he takes the half dozen steps it takes to cross the room and stand over her in a loom of shadow.

"Hey," He kicks her on the rear, not quite gently enough to be a nudge, but hard enough to wake her had she been asleep in the first place, "Let's go, bitch."

Carolyn pretends to rouse, turning over to look up at him as he crouches down and pulls a large hunting knife from the holster on his thigh, the one he'd been using before, and grabs her bound legs by her ankle, yanking them straight so he can slice the wadded duct tape and tear it noisily from her vault suit, freeing her legs one restraint at a time until all three lengths sit wadded on the floor next to her. Before a coherent thought formulates, echoing any kind of retaliation against the only person standing between her and a possible escape, he grabs her knee and folds her legs over to pin her in place. The blade of his knife flashes silver and settles down onto the meat of her thigh.

"You try anything stupid," He hisses, "And I'll show you all the ways you can hurt a fucker without killin' 'em."

Carolyn winces, emitting an alarmed muffled cry as the tip of his blade sinks half an inch into her leg. Her response only seems to delight him; a deep cackle reverberates in his throat from behind the horrifying mask. He pulls the blade back and Carolyn bites her tongue as hard as she can to stop any other pained cries. The thought of being at this man's disposal, or anyone like him, curls her stomach into horror and disgust. All the new horrifying scenarios begin to flood in; she may just find out why she's here after all.

The raider pockets the blade again with a swipe of vinyl fabric, and reaches down to grab her arm. He pulls her straight up to her feet and she stumbles on her numbed and aching legs without a chance to stretch or brace herself. He shoves her forward with his elbow on her back, his hand in a vice grip around her upper arm.

They cross the metal platform and into the second overlooking office that she'd barely gotten a glimpse of before, a square of desks littered with vials and open bags of noxious smelling ingredients, a chemistry station set up in the corner, and heaps of paper and metal piled on the floor. She kicks a bolt and some screws across the ground as she focuses on trying not to fall flat on her face, her legs can barely keep up to the raider's hastened pace. She needs to do something, she needs to think, she can use her legs now, there's only one man, if she doesn't try something now, there may not be a better time.

On the platform towards the staircase leading to the factory floor, a gap sits where the walkway would normally continue across; the toes of Carolyn's boot come inches from it, easily over a ten foot drop, her stomach clenches and flips from the vertigo. There's an old pre-war forklift machine sitting just under them, its lift hovering inches above the ground at rest, dormant and rusted solid. At her side the man reaches over and pounds his fist onto a tall box with a red button, there's a jolt of gears underfoot and the bottom layer of metal begins to extend and close the gap. However, it stops only a handful of inches forward.

He turns back and hits the button a second time, only to lock it down and cause the grinding of metal to rumble through the grates, "Argh," he growls, "Piece of shit."

Carolyn's breathing is rapid, her nose flaring and burning to keep up with her panic, the man lets go of her forearm and steps over to slam the meat of his fist into the box of the mechanism. The pounding of her blood deafens her, her eyes blurring with tears, think, just calm down and think, there has to be a way out of this, something.

... Val.

What would Val do?

A sudden rush of comfort envelops her; she blinks through the tears and then shuts her eyes for a second to think of her old friend. In Boston, before the war, she'd worked a case with him back before Nate had come home from his time in the field, before she'd taken maternity leave from her job. Val demonstrated on more than one occasion that he was tough, smart, willing to do just about anything for the right cause, he'd jump into fire to save someone. If anyone knew what to do now, it would be Val. If he were here right now, what would he tell her to do?

Get away. He would tell her that she needs to get away, whatever it takes, start running; don't stop, not for anything, not until she's somewhere safe, somewhere she _knows_ it's safe.

He would also give her hell for getting into this situation, during escape and probably after.

If he...

God, If he knew... if he _knew_ she was in trouble, there would be nothing anyone could do or say to stop him from coming after her, he'd jump straight into the fire to save her too, he'd find her, take her home, stay with her until he knew for certain she was okay, even then he'd probably stay longer.

Her heart begins to twist, aching with grief, but she chokes it down. There's no point in opening wounds, no point in hoping he would come out of the woodwork and save her, because he's gone, just like everyone else, and she can't afford to think about it, not while she's in danger, she needs to concentrate.

When she opens her eyes again, she's staring down across the end of the assembly floor, darkness with a few overhead lights illuminating downward to silhouette a door near the end with a bright red neon sign sitting over the frame. From here, without her glasses, she can't make out the letters, but the universal appearance and the memories of her middle school field trip makes the emergency exit door as bright as the sun.

Carolyn goes rigid at the sight. Her body jerks as the sound of the extending bridge hums to life with a final slam of the Raider's fist, he emits a semi-victorious grunt. Val's voice suddenly echoes in her head to snap her out of her sudden fear, **_get outta there, sweetheart!_**

She doesn't think, she doesn't consider what could happen if she didn't heed to their threats, she just angles her shoulder down and throws all of her weight against the square of the raider's back. He isn't expecting all of his balance and stature to be thrown out from his center of mass, he emits a startled yelp, his boots scraping on the slick metal as he scrambles for footing, his arms shooting out for the railing as his twists in the air, an instinct to save himself from plummeting, but his fingers grasp inches too late. The impact of his body landing spine-length onto the narrow support wall of the forklift ten feet below stops his sudden alarmed scream the second it crawls out from his throat; an empty throaty gasp takes its place as the contact forces all the air from his lungs, his head cocked back to reveal the grimy skin of his neck.

Carolyn hovers, several degrees too far to regain her own balance, so distracted by the sight of his body contorting from the fall that she doesn't realize she's falling too until the rush of air pulls her hair from her cheeks and she gasps with the instinct to scream. She lands directly on top of him before any sound comes out; the weight of her entire body slamming into him all at once collapses his ribs and snaps the vertebra in his neck with a dull grinding pop.

Thrown off by the momentum of the fall, she bounces and rolls like a pinwheel onto the ground, barely missing the forks of the lift as her leg extends and crumples sideways from her deadfall weight. She rolls once and then comes to a heaping stop on her back, her elbows grinding and on fire.

With a hoarse gasp, she curls into a ball on her side, her body pulsing with pain as she tries to breathe though compression in her chest. Her head is pounding again, swelling behind her eyes and sending bright white stars spinning through her vision. The stench of oil and gasoline assaults her senses; cool, like alcohol, it plasters her hair against her neck and face, the iridescent sheen visible from the reflection of lights over the factory floor. She quickly twists and sits herself up, using the wall at her side to ease weight back onto her legs. It takes her a moment to shake off the sudden dizziness that races up into her head, almost throwing her back to her hind, before she turns her head and see's the twisted body of the raider.

Carolyn feels her horror rise in her stomach; she curls back down on her feet with a heave, coughing as bile begins to rise in her throat, trying to escape through the length of duct tape. His neck, twisted into an unnatural shape, curls his head around and lays his visible gaze right at her. The holes of his mask, torn open by the fall, expose both of his wide and reddened eyes, bulging from his skull and leaking tears of blood into the burlap, hiding the rest of his horror struck grin from view.

 _SLAM_.

Carolyn jerks up in alarm; from across the assembly floor she hears the same sound of a metal door slamming, another set of footfalls begins to approach the catwalk, calling out to the Raider now lying dead out of immediate view, "Hey, Rus!" He yells, "Hurry the fuck up, Jared's balls are in a twist!"

As the man approaches the staircase, Carolyn scrambles around the opposite side of the forklift, keeping low as he ascends and then crosses the extended bridge which had completed the walkway. Carolyn eases back around the forklift as he disappears into the cover of the first overhead office, and then takes a breath to steel her nerves.

Okay.

Carolyn breaks from the cover of the forklift with a leap and sprints for the emergency exit door. Her heart is pounding so fast she can't hear her own footfalls, she doesn't look back to see if she was spotted, she doesn't consider it, she only spins on her heel to grip the handle with her right hand. Twisting the door open, she pulls herself into the next room with a scramble.

When she turns, she sets her eyes on another door at the end of a short, stunted hallway. Crossed over from corner to corner on the upper half of the frame are two large chains. Carolyn mutters something under her heavy pants not quite committed to a desperate curse. She races forward, turning to let her hand grip the handle and yank on it, and it opens inwards only a few inches before clattering against the chains. Pulling back, she immediately sees that both ends of each chain hook into loops to keep them in place, making an entrance from outside impossible, yet from the inside she could easily pull them for their rungs and escape. However, even as she fumbles with both sides to clear the door for a swift exit, her relief is hesitant.

When the door opens, the sudden assault by the glare of broad sunlight is blinding, the stagnant heat envelopes her and sprinkles goosebumps across her skin as she steps out into the full brunt and closes the door behind her. It's then she realizes how cold she really is and it takes the open sky to make her fully aware of it.

Blinking, focusing her gaze on the path ahead of her, she sees a slight decline of what was a gravel road sloping down towards two large vehicles parked against a rusty fence, it turns down to the left somewhere towards the main road, and it appears open and clear of Raiders; she crouches low and presses against the three foot brick foundation along the pathway, caught between wanting to sprint to the nearest exit and trying to keep a level head to stay out of sight until it's all clear.

Only a few steps away from an old and very large fitted piece of factory piping, she spots a Raider standing at the top of the descending driveway funnelling between two sides of concrete foundation holding the outside boardwalks and pillars of the factory. She stumbles, trying to come to a stop and backtrack because he hasn't seen her yet, but without her arms to off-set her momentum she trips and the foot of her boot catches the torn metal lip of the enormous pipe. She tumbles noisily into the downward scoop in a heap.

"The fuck was that?" The raider asks aloud, and Carolyn freezes, even as her body curls into an uncomfortable and unnatural shape against the coil of the metal.

Another raider calls back from somewhere farther away, elevated, and possibly on one of the metal catwalks she'd seen, "Hey, shut up."

"You shut up," He snaps, "I heard something."

"Both o' you, shut up," A third voice calls, somewhere between the two, "We're supposed to be keepin' an eye on these assholes; you want me to tell Jared you're both fuckin' around?"

"Yeah, I'd like to see you try."

"Whatever."

Carolyn listens for any indication that any of them intend to investigate, but it just gets quiet again. She rolls to her knees, grinding the bone of her right elbow against the metal, she shuffles forward where the pipe evens out and peers around only to spot the closest raider as he's lighting up a cigarette. Another man is standing on the end of the concrete foundation near the steep ledge, and she peers up to see the third walking up a set of catwalk stairs two stories above on the right side.

If she's quiet, and none of them decide to turn around, she can get to the fence.

Gently, she eases herself out of the pipe and crouches low to next to the wall, her legs brushing thin grass growing up through the gravel under her boots as she jerks her attention between the raider keeping an eye on the descending driveway and the path before her.

Two shipment trucks sit parked, immobile and rusted, beside the orange and twisted chain link fence. Carefully stepping until she's out of view, she shoots back up to her feet and races down the length, searching for a gap to squeeze through, and finds a curled tear she's able to kick open and squeeze through. Her chest and back catch on the loose wire, tearing small holes in her suit, though she's hardly coherent enough to care. The high of her escape is starting to overwhelm her, she may start laughing, or crying the minute she's out.

On the other side of the fence, she begins descending the sharp incline of the grassy hill, leading to a shorter stone fence she could easily climb over, her foot slips out from under her on a patch of mud still wet from the previous storm. With a sharp muffled yelp, she slides and then begins to roll, the mud and grass smearing up her legs, patching to her suit in clumps until she finally comes to a stop, her back slams up against the cobblestone fence. With a groan, both shoulders and elbows burning, she pulls her knees under her and leans against the rock for support, she suddenly feels so exhausted, but she needs to keep going.

Suddenly, she hears the clacking of approaching footsteps, her head jerks up in alarm to see a man in a blue and black pinstripe suit, the shadow of his hat shrouding the details of his face. Carolyn shoots up from her knees and stumbles back, looking over her shoulder for a place to go, but the only direction that isn't forward is the steep hill she just floundered down.

As she steps back, her heel smacks against a line of bricks that had crumbled from the main foundation of the brick fence, she lands hard on her tail bone and pain shoots up her back. The man approaches slowly, immediately holding up both of his hands, palms facing her passively to show her he doesn't mean her any harm, his skin looks horribly burned and disfigured as he does, as though he'd been caught in a fire and seared, "Whoa there, sweet cheeks, calm down."

Carolyn stops, her heart thundering, his voice is unbelievably rough and gritty, like a several decade smoker. It doesn't calm her, in fact it does the very opposite. She pushes herself backwards until her back hits the corner bend of the fence, and she lifts her leg to kick up at him as he closes in.

"Alright, alright, Jesus," He jerks back from a kick aimed at his stomach, and then grabs her knee to lean down and reach out with his hand, "At least let me get that shit off."

He grips the corner of the tape on her face and tears it off with a sharp yank. She immediately gasps from the sting, her lips and mouth coated with a horrid mixture of bile, spit, and adhesive that she wouldn't dare swallow. She coughs, spitting the sharp and bitter taste from her mouth and wiping her face on the shoulder of her suit. The fresh mud smears across her mouth, the earth tasting infinitely better.

"Who are you?" Her throat aches with her demand, raspy and unfamiliar like she hasn't heard it in forever, "What do you want? Are you with those raiders?"

"Hey now, don't you worry about a thing," He crouches next to her and reaches out to grab her chin, gently turning her gaze to meet his face, but all Carolyn can see from behind the shadows is a mask of seared dark red skin. A face that has been torn and melted by the sun, a black triangular hole sits open where his nose is supposed to be, and his eyes... two pools of ink with nothing but the circle of white around his pupil, "It'll be over real soon, sweetheart."

Carolyn opens her mouth to gasp in horror, but he grabs her face with such sudden force that it's strained and choked right out of her, his opposite hand comes up with a flash of silver and plunges a long needle straight into her neck, a cool liquid rapidly floods under her skin and down her neck like ice cold fingers, her chest goes numb as her heartbeat slows. The sudden intoxicating relief of all her aches and pains overwhelms her and she lets out a light moan of surprise right before falling limp into the arms of her assailant.

He leans down and hoists her over his shoulder, standing up with a long note of exhaustion before he turns back to walk around the east end of Corvega with her dangling over him. Her vision contorts with dizziness the minute she's upside down and loses sight of where she's going, her entire body spins as though he were twisting on heel in a single continuous pirouette; vertigo wraps her head like a scarf.

"Man, I'll tell ya," He mutters aloud, but it sounds like an echo of a voice underwater, "These raiders ain't shit if they can't keep track of one b...itch..."

The last few words of his sentence fade softly, her view turns into black clouds, head swelling ripe with haze. Against her will, her eyes flutter close; pictures begin to flicker across her mind's eye, small colourful snapshots of her bright suburban home, a repetition of her nightmare quickly diminishing and twisting into a time lapse of neglect and overgrowth. The colors strip and peel, fading into a visage of washed greys. The windows, crackled with a growing mass of spider web, fractures showering glass onto the ground, the door hangs loose as the metal corrodes and rusts into a dark scarlet red, like the edges of a bandage soaking up blood. The wind picks up and begins to howl, the same throaty moan of agony rises from a low whistle into an unbearable wail that erupts from inside of her head, passing the hands clamping to her ears, and her view magnifies back into the open door to once again see the unnatural black shapes manifesting within, pulling her towards the malicious ichors inside.

 **No!** She can feel her throat burn with a scream, **no, no, No, NO, NO!**

Suddenly it all comes to a stop, she can feel her feet landing and stumbling back on the stone steps before the archway, everything inside suddenly fading back into a low light silhouette of the remains of her kitchen. She feels so cold all of the sudden, exhausted like she hasn't slept a wink, like her entire mind is buzzing with insomniac retaliation. Why is she standing in the doorway of her old house?

Turning back towards the yellow house across the way, she immediately spots a misshapen Mr. Handy bot floating in the center of the road. His center optical is a gnarled mass of broken metal, his right optic lens shattered, and one of his arms is torn clean away halfway down the length. Even in the faded light, the damage is immediately distinctive. Amongst the damage, his rocket hitches, igniting the rest of the extent of his deformity, his rounded bodily core looks completely mangled, as if a claw tore through the rusty metal plating. A small bullet hole sits just off the center of his right side the size of a bottle cap, on the opposite end, there's a large exit wound splitting the metal open like a bloomed flower, wires, black oil and coolant drip down onto his flame thrower armature and to the ground.

"...Codsworth?" Carolyn asks cautiously.

"Oh... oh dear... are you alright, mum?" His tone is languid, drained as if exhausted; he looks like he shouldn't be able to function at all, let alone speak.

Before she can answer, a man steps out from behind him, appearing seemingly from out of nowhere, she recognizes it as Don. He'd been asleep, did they wake him up?

He approaches the base of the stairs, coming into view from the shadows without any indication of injury but... there's a large red gash sitting on his lower lip that's bleeding quite badly, running a line of blood down his neck and into the collar of his vault suit. On his arm is a bullet wound that looks like it just skimmed and tore the outside muscle, but on his chest, there's a red bloom, a gaping wound that sits between his pectorals to reveal a hollow core of where his heart should be.

"What did you see?" His face is lined with concern, his tone pressing with immediacy as he spits blood with every syllable, splattering the ground inches from her feet, "Who was shooting at you?!"

Carolyn stumbles back, reaching up to cover her mouth with a gasp of shock, but her hand feels alarmingly unfamiliar, large and calloused with the smell of sweat and hot filthy skin. She goes to pull back, but she's suddenly gripping the forearm of someone else, someone who's pressing their hand over her mouth. She tries to jerk her opposite arm up, but it sits secured around to the small of her back by another foreign grasp, she can feel the looming heat of another body at her back as a voice creeps into her ear with a hot breath.

"Gotcha bitch."

Everything around her suddenly goes white, the scene erupting with another flash of recollection and she finds herself landing in the middle of an open concept gym... one that appears to be pre-war and suddenly very familiar to her... _A room with black padded mats and weight gear, bright open windows that cast in the afternoon sun on the opposite wall lined with dumbbells of different weight smells of sweat and the artificial leather of boxing gear. There's a group of men and women standing in a crowd wearing matching uniforms dampened dark with sweat. They're encircling two men dressed in full sparring gear who take turns lunging violent punches and kicks at each other._

 _Most of the faces are visible, but she can't seem to place any of them as people she knows. There must be another reason that she's here._

 _"Don't tell me you're here to get in on the action..."_

 _She turns, startled, as the voice of a man interrupts her thoughts. She immediately recognizes the familiar face of a man standing half a foot taller than her with black eyes and hair, his tanned skin moist and glistening with sweat that plasters a few of his dark locks to his forehead. He's wearing a dark grey sleeveless shirt with the initials B.P.D. over his left side and black shorts, the same uniform as the rest of the people here._

 _That's right; she came here to see him._

 _Carolyn reaches up and brushes the hair off of his brow as he smiles down at her, "You look like you could use a shower," She comments, turning back to view the match, "What's going on?"_

 _"They've been at each other's throat for days, made work tense as hell, so the lot of 'em started betting on who would knock the other down first, they decided to make an event out of it," He then adds, "Don't tell the captain."_

 _She chuckles, "I wouldn't dream of it."_

 _"Good," He reaches down and taps her arm, "Come 'ere."_

 _Carolyn turns and watches him walk into the center of one of the match rings with a white boarder about five meters across and a solid circle in the middle. The group is using the next one across. When he turns back to look at her from inside the circle he puts his hands on his hips and smirks, amused, "What're looking all suspicious for, I just want to show you something."_

 _She tilts her head doubtfully, "What?"_

 _"Well, I can't do it while you're over there, come on." He motions her forward._

 _She rolls her eyes and reluctantly joins him in the ring, her shoes sinking an inch or so into the mats as she walks, she feels like she's walking in the snow with her work shoes on. She stands opposite of him in the ring as though she were his sparring partner, she certainly hopes this isn't the case, she's wearing a suit._

 _He takes a moment to look her up and down sceptically, "Okay, first off, you gotta lose the heels."_

 _Carolyn sighs and slips out of her white two inch wedges, walking them over to one of the benches outside of the ring, "Heels lost."_

 _"And the jacket," He calls at her while she's there, "that won't work either."_

 _She hums affirmatively, and takes off her grey suit jacket, folding it once over her forearm and then leaving it next to her shoes, "Anything else?"_

 _"Well, you're still not exactly dressed for a fight, but hey, it'll work," He motions to the floor in front of him, "Stand right about here."_

 _Carolyn slowly takes her place in the ring, her shoulders tense, arms flat at her side. He just raises his brow as he waits for her to get into place, finally he walks over and presses a hand to her back, guiding her forward, "Relax, sweetheart, I'm not going to hit you, look, here's the deal, you're a physically weak young woman-"_

 _"Hey!"_

 _"...and it would do you some good to know some basic self-defence moves," He continues, "We have officers here as short as you that can take down a guy like the Captain without a scratch, so you don't have to worry about not being able to-"_

 _"Val," She looks up at him as he takes his place in the ring in front of her, "Why is this coming up now, what's going on?"_

 _"It's nothing, not really," He starts, and then glances off hesitantly, "Well... I hadn't thought much of it until yesterday, but the local high school brought in a class of teenage girls, they were telling us how their... young male friends didn't know how to keep their hands to themselves, so we taught them a few moves that could floor a john twice their weight, break a wrist, or a nose, nothing lethal, but it would get the point across."_

 _"You're worried my husband is suddenly going to lose his understanding of the word no?"_

 _"No, I'm worried that you might get hurt or robbed by gun point just by going home after a long day's work," He retorts, "As your friend, who also happens to be a cop, it's my responsibility to make sure you know the basics at least, if not I might as well be the one mugging you."_

 _Carolyn stares up at him, he seems to be really serious about this. While she will admit that she lacks enough upper body strength to harbour aid from her neighbour to open pickle jars, she will argue that she never goes walking in alley ways at night, or anything that would prompt a gun point mugging._

 _Well there's no real reason to say no to free lessons, and... He is being mindful of her safety, "Alright..." She sighs, "Let's do it. Just try not to ruin my blouse, okay?"_

The fond memory suddenly fades back into a blur of sudden adrenaline; she becomes immediately aware of her situation, she was escaping from these men, she was trying to get away and then someone came up from behind her, grabbed her, planning to do god knows what to her. She can't let that happen.

Her assailant pulls her backwards towards the doorway of her house where she'd seen that black oily expanse. Panicked, she twists back as a reaction and shoves the bend of her elbow right into his diaphragm, striking the soft belly just under the rim of his orange coloured armour. He lets out a pained and startled exhale, curling inward and allowing her to grab his forearm for momentum to aim for the center of his face with the back of her head. The impact is solid and it rattles her brain, momentarily stunning her, but she recovers quick enough to pull herself from the man's sudden slacked grip on her face.

She curls herself around to face him, unable to run with his vice grip still on her wrist, his eyes are starred and dizzy, blood running in two streams from his nose, but he has enough instinct to make sure he doesn't let her go, even as she swings her leg up and nails her shin between his legs. He howls in shock, his entire body contorting inwards as he staggers and loses footing on the edge of the half foot tall cemented staircase. He doesn't let her go, even as he's falling, she's pulled along like a rag doll, landing on top of him in a heap as they splatter into the grass and mud a few feet from the browned and dead hedges.

Flush with terror, Carolyn wriggles away from him, rolling onto the ground trying to pry free as she meets the face of her attacker, his eyes wide and furious behind a mask of dirt, oil and blood, his colourless Mohawk soaked and askew with grime. He snarls, enraged, and reaches out to take hold of her once more. An overpowering urge to flee suddenly floods through her, she pulls herself back, kicking his arms and hands away with an abrupt ferocity, animalistic desperation. Her kicks are a flurry, aiming for his chest and then nailing him in the chin. His jaw slams closed with a snap of teeth and he finally loosens his grip on her wrist. The second she pulls herself free and scrambles to her feet, however, she doesn't turn and run as fast as she can, but finds herself standing in place staring at the full form of the man as he lays stunned. It triggers an immediate recollection of why she'd been running, where she was running from, and what she saw that made her think running was her only other option.

She turns and peers over her shoulder to where Don and Codsworth had been standing, instead of seeing them upright with what appeared to be fatal injuries; she see's both of their crumpled bodies laying the road. Carolyn was witness to the injuries they suffered, she watched them die right in front of her, and they're dead because of this man and the raiders that he was leading.

It's all because they wanted her...

Carolyn's chest curls, twisting into a ball of sorrow and guilt so heavy she feels as though she cannot breathe, oh god, they're both dead because of him, how could someone be capable of so much evil?

She turns back to the man, tears pooling in her eyes, "How could you do this?"

He doesn't respond, instead his eyes begin to clear and he moves to sit up with a malicious sneer, Carolyn lifts her boot and stomps down on the collar of his chest armour with an unfamiliar force she didn't know she was capable of, it shoves him down and back into the mud.

"Answer me!" She cries, "How could you do something like this?!"

The man doesn't answer once again, Carolyn feels her blood begin to boil, her jaw tensing with frustration and rage. Her second kick aims for his head, and connects with a dizzying power that shutters in her thighs, squashing his cranium into the mud and planting it still. An act challenging an answer, demanding he speak up to justify his actions, to explain to her that what he had done was because of something he felt was necessary, that he hadn't done it as an act of malevolence. It's what she wanted to hear, but she knew that even if he explained himself away, she'd hate him all the same. It's something she knows even as her boot comes down a third time, aiming for the temple of his skull, the impact crunching and caving the bone underneath with a shutter, the man emits a choked gasp, his eyes bulging with shock. She emits a furious cry as her heel comes down a final time and bursts the skull open in an explosion of red and black, grey matter and blood splattering onto the grass and the mud, up her leg and chest, and even the siding of the house.

Panting heavily, her entire body trembles from head to toe, her boot sitting idle in a crater of thick oozing gore, she stares down at the entire length of her attacker's body as the limbs twitch with the final spasms of dying muscles. Her eyes suddenly blur and she can feel tears running down her face, effortless like a leaking faucet, tied to nothing but the shock and adrenaline of what she just did. Her pants turn into gasps and then into sobs, her head hangs, hands balled into tight white knuckled fists.

Under her boot, something catches her eye and she blinks through the tears, a chunk of scalp and skull not yet soaked completely in blood. There's hair that, in the low light, looks very similar to the color of her attackers Mohawk, only now it has a sudden color she didn't seen before, it's blonde.

Startled, she looks over to his body to see that it too has changed from what she had initially seen, the shape of him isn't as large as she thought it was; in fact now it's totally different, it's no longer even male. It's the body of a soft figured woman wearing a pastel coloured dress that barely looks to be any color at all, but something deep in her mind, the sudden fear that percolates in her chest, tells her that it's her favourite shade of pink. The woman's hands are gripping the dirt like white bracken claws, stained with mud so dark in contrast it looks like ink, yet peeking through on the ring finger of her right is the glimmer of a yellow gold wedding band.

All of her grief goes stone cold.

Slowly, she raises her boot to see the muck of the shattered cranium decorated with more of the long bloodied locks, sticking to the bottom of her sole in long mucousy tendrils as she steps back, stunned with the confliction of horror and incomprehension, knowing that her mind is piecing together the impossible. Even so, she jerks back in horror at the realization that she didn't kill the man who attacked her in her desperate escape from the raiders, but somehow she killed herself. The woman she recognized as she looked in the mirror the morning of the bomb drop, the one who'd had such hope for her family recovering the last two years since Nate had come home from war. The one who had given her baby to her husband without knowing it would have been the last time he held him close. Everything she had been and anything she could have been, a future she would never know, gone in a frenzied rage that she herself inflicted.

All that's left is a contorted body that lies empty in the mud. She can even make out the faded discoloration of missing skin pigments that lay in cloud shaped patches all over her skin, something that had worried her for years and years, something she remembered being so important to cover up, meaningless.

When she opens her mouth to scream, it's not one of fear or horror, it's one of such twisted agony and grief that any other sound she could have made would have been inadequate. It shatters the horrifying vision into pieces, broken like a mirror and she's suddenly in a free fall.

In a burst of violent consciousness, turning her stomach, her body thrashes back into consciousness with a massive hypnic jerk, her body reacting to the dreamscape fall instinctually. Emitting startled gasps in lieu of being unable to scream through her dry and torn throat, she's suddenly upright somewhere completely unfamiliar to her. It's dark, blurry, she can't see properly without her glasses, especially not in the dark, but she can tell she's no longer in the Corvega office.

However... it's calm.

There's no rumbling of distant underground vibrations, or the hum of machinery, no sounds around her but the violent pounding of her heart in her ears and the sound of her distressed breathing. Suddenly she forgets the fear of not knowing where she is, or how she could possibly find her way out because it's _so quiet_ and the relief of silence overwhelms every nerve in her body and relaxes her shoulders.

"Uh, 'scuse me."

Carolyn jumps three inches off the ground with a startled shriek that rips the silence louder than the voice that just spoke up not inches behind her, she twists and throws herself into the corner next to her feet with her arms wrapping over her head like a terrified child, " _No!_ " She cries, " _No, God, please, no!_ "

"Hey, hey, _calm down_ ," He urges gently, "I'm not going to hurt you, alright? But you're gonna want to keep it down, if they know you're awake, they'll come lookin' to collect."

Carolyn freezes, certain that she's suffering from either a continuation of a severe overdose of some kind of drug, or that her injuries are severe enough to insight hallucinations, because the voice speaking to her sounds so familiar that there's no way it could be real.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lowers her arms to see the man the voice belongs to, almost too afraid to find out. Her chest twists with a furious concoction of hope, fear, and relief as she turns her head to look at him, meeting a pair of glowing yellow eyes peering at her through a grey shadowed face, she opens her mouth to speak, but her voice is trembling.

"...Val?"


	10. Missing Persons

Tobacco smoke rises from the smouldering end of a cigarette in an uninterrupted, smooth, off-blue stream. There's nothing within the room to stutter its flow, no breeze or draft, and certainly no exhale of breath. Even so, it sits between the lips of Diamond Cities finest, and certainly only genuine Institute souvenir, Detective Nick Valentine. His eyes, glowing bright yellow in the low light of the room, only illuminated by a single overhead light directly above him, stare down wistfully at the stream almost totally caught up in its ironic serenity. It's quiet, been so for quite a handful of hours now, the Triggermen usually open the Vault door early in the morning to send out droves of wannabe gangsters to keep an eye on the entrance and the entire subway system leading up to it like their hideout was in constant threat of being subverted. It's clockwork he's familiarized himself with; the vibrations in the floor are distinctive, even though he's most likely leagues from the surface. Generally they open it around the same time of day, a good indication of their time management, but for some reason this morning they're late. Might have had something to do with their acclaimed mobster boss leaving them all unsupervised the night before with his pretty new flame latched to his arm adorned with a blood soaked hickory baseball bat.

It's not like anyone would have the gall to dredge all the way up the tracks and through the Vault unless they had an unnatural hatred for trilby hats and submachine guns. Of course, if someone happened to be looking for a young kidnapped girl only to find out her parents forgot to mention her proclivity for overweight mobsters and blunt melee weapons... now that there was his first surprise of the evening. The next had something to do with her lover wanting to keep an old Synth locked up in the deepest pits of the underground instead of kicking his keester right back out of Park Street Station.

The third surprise, and here he thought he'd only been so lucky as to be graced by the first two, came about a few days after when Nick realized that there was just about the same likelihood of them letting him go as them taking over what remains of the Boston of old and turning it into some post-war gangster paradise that would make even the Brotherhood shake in their giant metal boots.

That being it was _highly, damn, unlikely_.

Now it's around noon on day fifteen, give or take, but he hesitates to put too much faith in an internally mechanized clock that has had no real way to calibrate to the earth's rotation other than his good 'ole fashioned guesswork.

It's just about the time when the citizens of Diamond City start to file in from the sun, or rain, or whatever weather happens to misfortune the lot of them that day, and crowd around the few places of fine post-war dining that the market offers. Whether it's the Dugout Inn, Takahashi's Noodle stand, Colonial Taphouse, or avoiding the crowds entirely and just eating in their homes, everyone seems to congregate about the same time of day like some unconscious social obligation that followed genetics straight through the apocalypse.

Just thinking about it makes him realize that he'd do just about anything right now for a lick of sunlight, even though he tends only experience it in short bursts. His coolant already works hard enough to keep him cool when the heat spikes without him standing in direct sunlight to boot. He's afraid if he isn't careful something important is gonna go and he'll end up leaking from a busted hose in his leg or blow a fan out entirely. A hard restart of his system ain't exactly the most comfortable thing he's experienced, and he isn't too sure he wants to collapse in the middle of the market leaving a crowd of folks scratching their heads about what to do with him next.

He knows damn well he'd end up waking up behind a building soaked in rain water with a kid sitting at his side asking if he's dead... again.

He already has a long list of embarrassing malfunctions to reminisce over; one mechanical heat stroke was enough.

At least now all he has to worry about is trying to keep himself sane, and he's had all the time in the world to think, mostly about how he manages to always get himself caught in these kinds of jams. Fifteen days is certainly the longest vacation in the claws of enemy territory he's experienced, not including however long he was in the confines of the Institute. He doesn't recall it ever rusting his noggin like the last two weeks have, but staying in the same room with the same ugly mug keeping him company for the most of it is certainly doing the trick.

As for the case he'd taken, it was a crying mother and angry father that done him in.

It was on a day that called for clouds and rain, the kind of mild weather Nick preferred out of the total hell the Commonwealth could dish out on one of its moody thralls. It could toss trees with wind and thunder that delivered ferals on the doorsteps of the unfortunate to boot, dampen everything with thick radioactive fog, sand blast and choke travellers with dust storms that can lodge sand so far into Nick's gears should he find himself outside it normally takes him hours to shake himself clean, and of course dry everything off with a sun so hot that it threatened to shut him down on principle alone. The kicker is that all of it could happen in the course of a week, so a little rain and cloud cover was a Godsend.

He always did like the rain.

Not that he was out that morning to enjoy it though, he was stuck behind his desk with Ellie at his side listening to an enraged father yell about how Diamond City Security refused to help find his daughter, Darla, on account of her supposedly leaving of her own free will. He said there were at least several guards letting him know that there was nothing wrong with a young girl wanting to leave home to be with her lover, well he ended up spending the night in lock up for calling them lot of them a string of insulting slurs.

Nick might have agreed with the guards had it not been for the crying mother insisting that her daughter was a good girl and would have never run off with a troublesome type, especially not a gangster like Skinny Malone. She got herself worked up into a tizzy and started rambling off in her bundle of tissues about how the malicious mobster boss was going to make Darla his wife and she'll end up having to slave over him, have his kids, and that all of her grandchildren would be gangsters too.

Suffice it to say, it was enough to give Nick a headache.

He finally accepted the case because they insisted she'd left on false pretences and had a solid lead on where to find her, Nick figured he could let her know her parents are distressed, maybe even get her to write a letter telling them that she's alright and that she's happy. That is, if she _did_ end up leaving to be with her boyfriend instead of it being a kidnapping like they insisted. Well, surprise enough for him, she ended up not being as innocent as the two of them insisted and just about beat him to the ground with that baseball bat of hers while Skinny Malone, who'd assumed the supposed kidnapping, was trying to get her to calm down before she ended up breaking something. Not even necessarily anything of his, his frame can hold up pretty solid against wood.

Well, after Darla damn hear broke her bat over his bruised metal behind, and just before Skinny instructed his men to toss him in the hole, he got an earful about how hurt he was that Nick would even consider that he took Darla from her home with anything but the intent for the two of them to be together. Then he went on about how they were in passionate love and going to run the show to take over the Commonwealth from the inside just like before the bombs.

They didn't even let Nick get so as much as a single word in his defence before they locked him in the overseer's office without any apparent intent to ever let him out, what a hell of a way to end the week.

Nick even considered that Skinny wouldn't keep him locked up more than a few days to get his point across not to mess with him and his operation, maybe even get Nick to agree to never come back. Well, he hasn't seen hide or hair of the man even coming up to say hello, he's seen him down in the cafeteria with his boys, so he knows he's around, just doesn't appear to really care about making an appearance. Nick has even gone so far as to let his guard, Dino, know that he'll agree to whatever terms Skinny offers if it'll get him out of this office. Especially since Dino started using Synth related insults that, really, weren't even that good, painful to hear honestly because he could tell that Dino thought they were downright genius.

When that didn't work, either because Dino forgot to pass along his request, or he didn't care to even try. Nick considered how he might try to escape by either overriding the door to the office, or pretending to malfunction so they would come in. Similarly to how a convict would fake an illness to get one or two guards in his cell so he could overpower them and take their weapons.

Of course that thought process didn't get him far when he realized that even if he manages to get out of the room, weapons or not, it'd be a hell of a trick getting out of the Vault considering he's several layers underground with about two dozen Triggermen between him and the exit. However, sitting tight hadn't really done much except make him loose his marbles and smoke through the last of his cigarettes. If they think he's grumpy now, wait till they meet him a day or two after his last puff, which, after the one currently in his mouth, will be approximately one or two days from today.

Might make for a hell of a story if that's what finally tips him over, got stuck in the hole for two weeks and decided that running out of cigarettes was the final straw. He can imagine the look on Skinny Malone's face if Nick came out of the Vault with two dozen dead bodies behind him to ask if he's got any smokes.

He starts to chuckle, but stops himself. Damn, he's definitely been in here too long.

After initially hearing the Vault door open from the rumblings under his rump as he sits on top of the Overseers desk, he hears a sudden commotion from two floors down in the cafeteria about twenty minutes later. From the window of the office, he can normally see down to the first floor through the open concept railings of the second floor. It's usually where he'd gathered some form of entertainment in watching the lot of younger members act like old timey gangsters, but this time he elected to stay put and wait for his favourite meat headed gangster wannabe to gift him a new arsenal of mediocre jabs like Nick had been totally unaware until that point that he was made of metal. At least this time he's been thinking of a way to retaliate that would scare the pants off of him.

Nick glances down at the last half inch length of smouldering cigarette in his lips, deciding it wouldn't be worth keeping even if it is his last one. Hell, who knows, maybe a little simulated withdrawal might give him the fire under his ass he needs.

He sighs and smothers it on the desk top next to where he'd been sitting for the past few hours and prepares himself, but he doesn't hear just one set of footfalls approaching like he expected, he hears several.

Suspicious, maybe even a little hopeful, Nick waits and watches the window intently as two people pass in front to access the door directly with Dino following quickly behind. However, the young Triggerman pauses to address him instead of going to the door, and he doesn't look nearly as happy as he usually does when he's sure his _wit_ will get Nick good, in fact he looks downright terrified.

"We're opening the door Valentine," He calls in, "You try anything stupid and we'll put you down, got it?"

Nick had a feeling this might not actually have anything to do with him, he'd like to hope that Skinny Malone finally decided what he wanted to do with him, but that kind of thinking was two weeks overdue, so he doesn't say a word, and only passively raises his hands from where they sat crossed and resting on his knees.

Dino doesn't so much as nod at the two that joined him up before they go ahead and open the door like it isn't the very thing standing between him and a timely escape. In fact, it slides open like it's the easiest damn thing in the world and Nick can't help but feel overwhelmingly frustrated. If they don't let him out today, he might really lose it, smokes or not.

Actually, he hadn't considered planning anything, or really gave too much thought into what he'd do the minute the door finally did open because he didn't think the damn thing ever would, at least not from the other side, but still, he finds his body tense like someone waiting for the gun to go off at the start of a race. He'll go for the door the damn second it's clear, no doubts about that, and they'd have to knock him stupid and drag him back unconscious to get him back inside.

That's what he'd like to think, at least, right up until one of the older Triggermen walks in. It's one of the few that has more of the natural tone and energy of some of the old classic mobsters that those younger wannabe's are trying to embody, Nick quite likes the few he's met already, and Tony happens to be one of them.

It's not out of his respect for the man that Nick doesn't immediately rush the door, but for the fact that he walks in holding an unconscious woman in his arms. It's not anyone Nick's seen in the Vault; and it certainly doesn't look like anyone who'd take a leisurely stroll out into the commons. She is a Vault dweller though, suit and all, but the fabric's torn to hell and stained in three kinds of filth, her blonde hair matted, crusted with dried mud and blood. She looks like she's been through absolute hell and Nick immediately jumps up to his feet with the inertia of his most likely suicidal attempt at an escape translated into immediate professional concern.

"Keep your hat on, Valentine," Tony turns and immediately places the woman on the floor underneath the Overseer's window, parallel to the wall with her feet pointing to the corner next to the dishevelled file lockers. From his back pocket, he pulls out a stained white towel that looks like it was haphazardly crammed in, and tucks it under the woman's head as a lumpy pillow.

Nick studies his tenderness; at six foot even he demonstrates the textbook definition of ' _gentle giant'_ , "Friend of yours?"

From behind Tony, Frankie, another senior Triggerman, leans against the doorframe flashing his submachine gun in case Nick decided to get any wise ideas, which he most certainly did, but he doesn't need to know that, "That ain't your business." He snaps.

"I'd just like to know if I should be at all worried about your boss starting a collection," Nick crosses his arms, "Because if she's a victim of one of your frequent kidnappings, you better bet your hat it's my goddamn business."

Before Frankie can retort, Tony turns back around and looks at the detective sincerely, Nick could see a thinly veiled sheen of desperation in his eyes, "It's not like that. Look, we don't got time to explain, but could you just keep an eye on her? Make sure she's okay?"

Nick glances over to Frankie as he plays doorman, his fingers are tapping impatiently on the barrel of his SMG as he casts quick and fleeting glances down the rail into the cafeteria. Through the window, he can see Dino fidgeting restlessly, hopping from foot to foot like he's getting ready to take off. With the final observation of the look in Tony's eyes, it suddenly hits him that there's something wrong, real damn wrong, and he's immediately aware, and awfully unsettled by the tangible air of dread surrounding the lot of them.

Nick has an inkling that it's not because they're at all scared of Skinny Malone.

"Sure," Nick agrees before he can think much more on it, though he already had full intentions to check on her without Tony's request, he considers that if he helps, he might just find himself in the full brunt of whatever consequences are following close behind.

"I appreciate it," Tony rises to his feet and retreats from the room, taking the corner sharply as he and Frankie march off in a hurry leaving Dino to scramble and shut the door that they left open.

It takes him all of a minute to lock that door again, firmly, before he scuttles off after his superiors. Nick watches him go like he was giving a silent goodbye to freedom and an open sky. In another circumstance, it would have been a perfect opportunity to rush the door like he'd half-planned, but he's not at all hesitant to admit plans change when new factors join the equation.

For better or worse, his escape plans no longer involve just him.

Nick reaches back and grabs his trench coat from where it he'd tossed it over the dusty Overseers terminal, quickly rushing to the woman's side as she lays boneless on the floor, so limp and motionless that he fears she may in fact be dead after all. Even so, he opens and lays his coat over her body, covering the skin exposed by the tears in the suit.

Gently, he lifts her jaw and turns her face to check the pulse point on her neck, leaning down to listen for her breathing. The aroma of oil and gasoline on her skin and hair is sharp, completely overpowering the smell of the blood and dirt on her face. Where ever she's been, he'd bet a spark anywhere nearby would set her completely aflame.

Under his fingertips, he detects a faint but fluttering heartbeat. She's alive, but he can barely hear her breathing, it could be blood loss, or maybe they gave her something strong to keep her unconscious, either way, she's not moving an inch. He's no doctor, but he should make sure she hasn't been hurt in a way that could immediately threaten her life, lucky for him he's pretty familiar with what bullet holes and stab wounds look like.

Nick leans back and begins following the tacky blood on her face that's half dry and caked in her air on the right side of her hairline. He brushes a lock of hair aside and reveals the source, a large swollen and purplish gash on her temple. It's a hell of a hit, might even have given her a concussion, but it's not recent, maybe a day old. Therefore, unless the Triggermen had her locked away elsewhere in the Vault until now, he doubts they had anything to do with her state. However, he should keep his mind open because there happens to be plenty of reasons they could have brought her up here, not limited to someone in the Vault trying to cover their tracks.

Tony is the kind of john who would help someone out if they were desperate too, he's a good man.

Gently easing her limbs up, he checks her for any other serious wounds, making sure he doesn't agitate any other injuries she may have that he can't see, he discovers the fabric over her elbows and knees scraped to hell and dried stiff with blood. Her palms are scabbed raw with a rash of swollen skin leading down to her wrists and encircling her exposed skin, signs of restraint by hand cuffs or rope maybe.

Settling her arm over her stomach, he eases her shoulder and hip up to check her back, and discovers a hell of a serious surface gash lying diagonally up her back, sealed with more scabbing, blood hardened fabric, and a fair bit of mud that seems to cover most of her suit as well. Hell, she looks like she's been rolling in it.

Most of her wounds look superficial, aside from that crack on her noggin, nothing immediately serious that harboured the threat of her bleeding out on the office floor. Then again he isn't qualified in anything but detective work; she could still be in serious trouble anywhere internally. All he can say for certain is she was taken and held somewhere, nabbed by Raiders, Gunners, or whoever else, and was able to get away. He guesses a couple of Triggermen went out for air, saw her wandering around in a daze, and took her in. Doesn't explain why the lot of them decided to drop her off to visit their keepsake prisoner looking about ready to wet their pants.

He doesn't like it, not one bit.

"Damn." Nick pulls his jacket up to cover her again, tucking it under her chin only for his eye to catch something sitting right on her jaw. She's quite fair skinned under all the mud and grime, looking a lot like someone who'd been cooped up inside for years without a lick of sunlight to color her cheeks, but he can see the faint lining of a patch of bleached skin, a pattern of missing pigment that for some reason looks real damn familiar.

Nick raises his hand to brush hair from her face to get a better view of her features, something to help him remember because he doesn't recall working with any Vault residents, not in quite a few years, but the second his knuckle touches her cheek the woman suddenly lurches.

The detective jerks backwards and unceremoniously slumps onto his hind, startled out of his wits, as her entire upper body pops up from the ground as though spring loaded. His jacket flinging onto her lap, her mouth hanging open with harsh and distressed pants, airy gasps in the place of any scream she may have cried out.

Nick stares, frozen in place just out of her line of sight as the woman in blue shakes, rigid, her face hidden from his immediate view as she stares out and into the corner where her feet are pointing. Slowly, her breathing begins to even out, her fading gasps turning into deep calming breaths and he actually only now considers making himself known, he reaches out to touch her shoulder, but hesitates, thinking that would just about do the job of scaring the absolute dickens out of her, so he decides to speak instead, saying the first thing that comes to him in a voice as gentle as he can muster in the confined space, "Uh, 'scuse me."

She _shrieks_.

The abrupt sound causes Nick to jump just about as high as she does as her scream just about shatters the sensitive inner mechanical workings of his ears, the receptors send all kinds of warning flares into his noggin' letting him know that that the sound was _**real damn loud**_.

Like he couldn't damn well figure that one out for himself, at least she isn't too hurt to move.

" _No! No, God, please, no!_ " She scrambles forward and curls herself into a ball in the corner of the room with her arms over her head like she's expecting a brutal attack.

"Hey, hey, _calm down_ ," He urges gently, pushing himself to his knees as he keeps an ear on any activity outside the room because her scream must have alerted someone, the lot of them ain't deaf, "I'm not going to hurt you, alright? But you're gonna want to keep it down, if they know you're awake, they'll come lookin' to collect."

The woman goes real quiet, which is a bit of a surprise to him because telling an upset dame to calm down generally does the exact opposite, and he knows that too, but he'll admit he's panicking a little. He doesn't know what's going on, why she's here, or who she is, but it's causing all kinds of interference in his processor on top of going near crazy.

After a long minute, she slowly lowers her arms to reveal a pair of wide and terrified amber brown eyes that peer at him through the filth of her face. A fearful and hesitant gaze that immediately twists into confusion, her brows knitting as she focuses onto Nick with a kind of sudden studying intensity that makes the gears in his chest involuntarily stutter.

"...Val?" She asks slowly.

Nick, torn between trying to tear his processor in three different directions not including trying to figure where he's seen this woman before, or why his gears feel like they're suddenly flooding with week old gummy fluids leaking from somewhere in his chest, opens his mouth to speak, but the words fall out a lot like if his mouth were full of something thick like oil and he had completely forgotten that it had been until the very moment he parts his lips, " _Huh-what?_ "

The confusion in her face only deepens and she opens her mouth to utter something that sounds a lot like she's echoing what stupid thing he just said, but the door to the Vault suddenly springs open and tears both of their attention towards the three triggermen that suddenly march into the room.

Nick first spots the gleam of their weapons, black SMG's wielded in their arms like prized badges of membership, and not a one of them are any of the senior triggermen that Nick particularly like. New members that Skinny Malone brought in one or two days into his confinement that had to prove themselves by beating the weakest members senseless and bringing in a load of supplies that look like they were either stolen from a caravan or a smaller settlement.

They stand in a group next to the door and stare down at Nick with various expressions of contempt, the detective tenses, his gut is telling him that he's not going to have to wonder for very much longer why this woman is here or who she is, because they're not here for him, not with the way Tony was looking at him earlier.

As Nick sits effectively kneeling in front of the woman in blue, his mind goes to the left pocket of his trench coat where a long red handled screwdriver sits tucked away for the occasion of the frequent re-tightening of the loose bolt keeping his right hand from falling to pieces.

However, he tucked his jacket over the young woman, and now it sits tangled around her feet as a result of her mad scramble to wad herself into the nearest corner of the room.

"On your feet, both o' yous," The young man leading the other two jerks the barrel of his gun up, "Keep your mouths shut unless you want I should shut 'em for you."

Nick doubts he means to shoot either of them, but instead of arguing the point, he ducks his head in compliance, taking his time standing up as it can have some serious side effects on his joints if he doesn't. However, when he gets vertical, he glances back at the woman to see she's still huddled up in the corner looking startled as all hell.

"That means you too, toots," The Triggerman growls, "Nice and slow like, no sudden moves."

The woman swallows audibly, and then braces her arms on either side of the wall supporting her back; she lifts upwards with a groan, her face lightly grimacing in pain. Nick quickly steps over to her to give her a hand, reaching down to grab his jacket the same instant he offers a hand and hoists her gently to her feet. When she's up, he leans in and whispers, "Run when I say so."

She looks up at him in alarm the same instant his hand dives into a snug jacket pocket and curls around the handle of his screwdriver.

"Hey, you got somethin' to say to the dame, romeo?" The triggerman marches up behind Nick and grabs his shoulder, "She ain't yours to be-"

Nick allows the man to pull him around, but the second he can see the grimace plastered against the triggerman's darkened face, his left hand wrapped firmly around the bright red tool thrusts up and plunges the head into the soft tissue under his jaw, horizontally grazing the artery curling under the bend of the bone and slipping it deep to the hilt. He can tell by the look on the man's face, and by the way his cheeks begin sporadically twitching that it dug right under and directly up into the spongy material of his grey matter, a hit like that would just about kill him instantly without a sound.

The boy standing next to the door that he can see over the shoulder of the dead man stares at the back of his superior with startled confusion, not appearing to know exactly what happened from the angle he drove the tool into his skull. However, the triggerman standing a few feet off to Nick's left is slack jawed with an expression of shock, knowing full well that the second Nick pulls the screwdriver out of his head there's going to be a lot of blood right before his body drops deadweight right to the floor.

However, he's not the one who raises his weapon, and he's not the one Nick aims for first. He's a kid who doesn't look twenty years old, but Nick's not entirely sure he won't fire, and he doesn't want to hurt him if he can avoid it, so instead of attacking him, he shoves the body of his superior at him before either of them can make a move to react.

The tension in the room breaks to pieces like glass, the triggerman on Nick's left finally reacts and pulls his SMG up to aim but is quickly subverted as the detective rushes him immediately after shoving the body and grabs the barrel with one hand and the frame with the other, twisting and pushing the man back and up against the wall.

"Go!" Nick shouts, turning his head to look at the woman as she stands stunned and unmoving in the corner of the room, goading her to get her ass moving, "Go!"

Finally pushing herself from the wall, she makes a break for the door. The triggerman uses that split second of distraction to shove Nick back; the body of the SMG rips from his grasp as the butt of the frame socks the detective right across the face, the metal digging a gouge from his cheek. He stumbles down onto his knee, looking up long enough to watch the blonde disappear around the frame of the office door, but the triggerman ensures the detective goes all the way down with an angry kick to the jaw that sends him down to his back. He can feel his head ringing like a gong; alarm's flaring, vibrating in his skull like it's on fire.

Nick forces himself up, straining his processor to realign so his head would stop buzzing, but when he hoists himself up using the frame of the overseer's desk, his eyes glue to the open door of the office as the youngest triggerman, no longer pinned under the body of his superior, stands by the terminal furiously tapping away at the keys looking scared out of his damn mind.

"Hey, wait-!" Nick reaches out with a hand feebly as the door once again seals shut and leaves the detective in a dark room, only now instead of being totally solitary, he's in the company of a dead and foul smelling triggerman.

Somehow he managed to put himself in a slightly worse situation than he started off with, but all he can't think about is whether or not that woman managed to get away, how long she's able to run while she's injured, and how far she'll get before she's lost in the maze of rooms and hallways, he's trying to ignore the feeling that he might have condemned her, but if his gut is right, and he'd like to think that it normally is, there are people in this Vault that don't want to hurt her, and hopefully helping her escape this room ensures that she runs into them instead of the others.

Until he's out of this room too, he won't know right away if he helped her get away or just made sure she ends up dead.

Nick leans back against the desk, taking the weight off of his legs and looks down to the body of the dead triggerman. He has to stare for a moment because he's not too sure he believes his own eyes, the SMG that the man had in his hands when Nick killed him is laying at his side with the corpses hand wrapped loosely around the handle. Forgotten when the men took off and locked the door behind them.

He walks over, slowly, and then yanks the weapon from the dead man's grip to check the ammo count. It's got a full magazine.

For a minute he stares in consideration, deciding, on a whim, to check his pockets too, and in the right inner pocket of his suit jacket, Nick finds an unopened pack of cigarettes.


	11. Discord

It didn't seem like it at first; though at a glance it appeared somehow familiar, Carolyn had very little reason to suspect that she woke up in another Vault, only because she hardly remembers through the trauma of waking up from cryogenic stasis in Vault 111 what it had actually looked like. However, the minute she flies out of the room in her panic, she looks out and over the rails of the narrow balcony and the appearance is like a universal picture. The sliding doors, the shape of the stairs, the walls, the color, and even the smell, it's all familiar though it's the _smell_ that hits her immediately. An odour that sticks to the inside of her nose, something metallic and sour, a stench from behind the walls that smells like rust, what she would assume is rust, but it's something she recognizes now that she may not have many years before now. It's old blood, stale and forgotten but somehow leaking from the walls and painting everything dark with the stench of death. Her stomach immediately turns; the following sense of dread and panic quickly following, she doesn't stop for anything more than the second it takes her to process her environment, her feet can't run fast enough, even as her tired and aching body erupts into a sudden bout of adrenaline. Her boots grip the stairs on the far end of the balcony as she scrambles, missing the last step and yelping as her foot slams down onto the ground, falling to her knees with the inertia.

When she scrambles back to her feet, an explosion of firepower erupts from the top of the stairs, bullets echoing in the hollow space as they litter the ground not two feet from her position, bouncing with a bright flash of sparks as Carolyn screams, falling parallel to the staircase and scrambling back until her rump hits the frame of the handrail.

The man second to the leader of the three who had entered the office stands two or three steps from the top, his large black weapon braced up and pointing directly at her, poised and ready to fire with the intent not to miss a second time. Her body goes rigid; her muscles tensing as if waiting for the second barrage to assault her, to pierce her body, an instinct awaiting the assured pain it would bring her before death.

"That's right, you stay right fuckin' there!" His face is bright red, knuckles white around the grip of the trigger and under the barrel of his weapon, "You make a single fucking move and I'm going to-"

 _ **BOOM!**_

Carolyn flinches back as a single shot rings in the air, much louder than the earlier gunfire, and coming from the doorway through to the narrow balcony next to the office. The man standing near the top of the stairs collapses forward following a burst of crimson muck exploding out from the right side of his forehead. His trilby hat takes off skywards to land and roll down the stairs, stopping at Carolyn's feet as she stares slack-jawed in awe, his body soon following and coming to a halt as a limp and tumbled heap at the bottom.

Out of the concealed hall connecting the balcony to the staircase, the third man appears, his large black weapon slung around his shoulders, and instead wielding a large silver handgun. The young man looks down at his fallen comrade, and then down to Carolyn as she sits frozen against the bottom of the stairs. His eyes are wide with horror, but he doesn't make any move to shoot her as well; instead he swallows thickly and calls down to her in a voice that sounds on the verge of breaking.

"Y-you gotta get outta here, Miss!" He says, "At the end of the room, go through the second door... follow the hall and find Tony, h-he'll... he'll help you get out, okay?"

Carolyn, staring up at him, can see the gleam in his eyes betraying whatever composure he mimicked in the office earlier as he followed his superiors like a puppy. He may not even be twenty years old. Carolyn feels her sudden maternal instinct rise, giving her enough courage to get back to her feet despite her body begging her for a more extended rest. He must have been too scared to go argue, not wanting to go along with whatever they had planned, and this retaliation must have given him the opportunity to finally do something about it.

"What's your name, honey?" She asks gently.

"Vinny..." Even standing at the top of the stairs, she can see that he's shaking.

Carolyn presses genuine sincerity in her voice, " _Thank you_ , Vinny."

His face brightens and he quickly nods, "Y-you're welcome, ma'am."

Carolyn offers her nod in response, small smile across her face, and she then turns to continue her escape. Immediately her legs begin to burn, running to the other side of the room where the dual doors sit, she opens the second one from her immediate path just like he told her, watching as it slides to reveal a long and dimly lit hallway.

Carolyn finds she pauses, if only just for a moment, considering looking back over her shoulder, back up to the Overseers office, through the circular window to try and catch a glimpse of... something. She doesn't know what she's hoping to see because that thing, whatever he is, it isn't Val... However he had sounded, maybe it was just her trying to manifest anything at all resembling her old friend. Her desperation, her unconscious damsel in distress mentality making her hear things, even see things, Val can't be here, he's not going to come out of the woodwork, and the sooner she accepts that, the sooner she can move on, move forward, even if...

...Even if she's all that's left of her family.

The notion sets a rot to her stomach, a dark mass that squeezes her from the inside and she feels as though she may be sick, but instead of giving in to her body's protest, she begins to make her way through the long narrow maintenance hallway, closing the door behind her. Carefully she steps over the tools littering the floor, twisting to avoid the possibly hazardous open panels of exposed wiring, quietly as possible, though she's not actively being pursued that might quickly change if she makes too much noise.

From above, the fluorescents begin to hum and blink, partially blinding her and causing an underestimation of the distance between her and the small metal table sitting diagonally and jutting into the passageway. Her hip clips the corner of the table with a plush bounce, sending the toolbox and wrench clattering noisily to the floor, and with it, a small faintly flickering radio. The paneling and glass shatter on impact, its dying sound is in the form of a hesitant zap of faulty wiring, blinking into total darkness within seconds and going dead with barely a fight left in it.

She curses gently under her breath, (rubbing the place of impact instinctually though it barely hurt), and continues down the hall not worrying about the mess, trying to focus on continuous movement, but her head is starting to swim. The adrenaline of her escape is slowly wearing down and she can feel her exhaustion creeping slowly behind her like an inevitable shadow.

When she reaches the next door, raising her hand to switch the dial to 'open', the radio she'd knocked over suddenly begins to whine once more. She pauses, glancing back to see it no longer sitting in pieces on the floor, but on back on the table where it had been, mostly none the worse for wear.

She knocked it over; she knows she had, because the pieces that broke off on impact are still littering the floor around the tools it followed. Her confusion is stark, but not as prominent as the sudden fear that rises in her gut as a thick malicious energy begins to seep into the hall. The shadows feel like they're darkening, the lights at the end of the hall begin to flicker with more intensity until they flash and die with a loud pop of electricity. The shutter shock blinds her and as she blinks through the impairment she's sure... she's sure that she can see the dark silhouette of a person standing in the shadows at the end of the hall.

That's when the radio, previously flickering with an obvious malfunction or frequency adjustment, bursts to life with a bright yellow signal that fills the hall with an upbeat tune, it startles her. The music is clear though the radio itself appears like it should no long be functioning, and the song is something she recognises, but the beat does nothing to mask the ominous energy that follows, giving the lyrics a kind of twisted and alternative meaning that makes her blood suddenly run cold.

 _Well, you can run like a rabbit! Fly like a bee! No matter what you do, you'll never get away from me because I'm right behind you baby! Right behind you baby! Oh, I'm right behind you baby and you're never gonna get away!_

Carolyn finds her fingers trembling as they fumble on the doors dial. Experiencing a fear she can't explain but nevertheless is familiar with, it's the same as what she's experienced in her reoccurring nightmare, the same dark pull that howls in agony in the bowels of her old pre-war home. The lights are humming with an audible intensity, growing brighter and brighter until they all burst in one large electric clap, blinding her once more and allowing a large black mass to manifest directly in front of her.

That's when the door behind her suddenly slides open. Revealing a man in a tan suit that Carolyn identifies in her peripherals as another mask of deep red burns, grotesque detail and texture, just like the man outside of Corvega, the immediate terror seizes all reason within her and she shrieks louder than she has yet, dropping down and pulling herself into the bend of the wall supporting the vault door frame with a terror wail that sounds to her more like a broken scream.

Immediately racking with sobs, she doesn't even register that the burned man does nothing to harm her, but retreats and returns with someone else, someone who places a warm suit jacket around her shoulders that almost dwarfs her size. She can hear him say something, muttering to another person, before he leans over and speaks to her in a soothing voice, "Hey, you're alright, come on."

She doesn't know why, but she allows him to hoist her up to her feet, guiding her farther down the hall and into a brightly lit room that smells of cologne and cigarettes, warm and humming with the presence of a crowd. She's gently urged to sit on a black leather office chair, the material peeling back to reveal the mesh and cushioning underneath, Carolyn's sobs reduce to quiet little sniffles, feeling a decade younger like a delicate troubled teenage girl as she's handed a stained white handkerchief to clear her tears.

The humming in the room grows quiet for a moment and she can immediately feel the eyes on her, but she doesn't look up to acknowledge it, instead a man kneels down in front of her and gives her another offering, a can of purified water. She takes it, muttering her gratitude wetly, and gently pulling the grey suit jacket top snug around her shoulders, meant to complete his ensemble from the look of the pattern on his slacks.

"Do you know where you are?" He asks her, keeping his voice low and remarkably gentle.

Carolyn looks up to meet the eyes of the only face she could picture to match the vocal tone, a softly squared face with a high airbrushed brow and droopy hazel coloured eyes, she feels herself relax almost instantaneously and answers as truthfully as she possibly can, "A vault..."

When the man smiles, it feels warm, "Well, that's close. You probably don't remember me either then; you were pretty out of it when I took you from the Drones. I'm Tony, and this here little operation you see behind me is a bunch of old geezers who called themselves Triggermen."

Carolyn glances over to the group of men as they chuckle in a dull roar, like the ones from before they're all adorned in different styles of suits and hats, wearing either ties or bows to match, and some without jackets and only black suspenders over lightly stained white dress shirts. The general aura around them as they smoke cigarettes and sip caramel coloured tonics from short glasses feels less like a threatening mob and more like a gruff and classy group of pre-war gangsters. They look slightly out of place in the brightly lit vault room, but the smoke that hangs around the air in a thick sheen gives the impression of the lot relaxing in a speakeasy or back room gambling table.

Tony notices her staring and smiles gently, "Alright, miss. What's your name?"

"Carolyn," She answers a little timidly, understandably intimidated.

"How'd you manage to get all the way down here, Miss Carolyn?" He asks the question plainly, truly, they found her in the middle of an attempted escape; at least that's what she'd hoped when taking that young man's advice on which way to go.

"I had some help," She starts, "I was told to come down this way; do you know a young man named Vinny?"

"Vinny?" Tony's face grows immediately concerned, but it doesn't do much to hinder his soothing appearance, "Yeah, he's my boy."

Carolyn's heart softens, simultaneously feeling an unbearable constriction that threatens another bout of tears as she recognizes the same look in his face that mimicked genuine parental concern, though at face value they look nothing alike, Vinny's skin tone is quite a bit lighter, "...he's your son?"

"Not by blood, no, but," He sounds like he's about to explain, but quickly stops himself from digressing, "Wait, what the hell was he doing up in that office?"

"It's not like that, he wasn't alone. There was..." She quickly assures him, trying to keep her voice steady as she explains what had happened, but the image of the two men dying in front of her are staining her recollection, "There was two other men, they... they came into the office with guns...I don't know what they were going to do, but... I was able to get away, and when one of them came chasing after me, Vinny shot him."

Tony's eyes widen like a deer caught in head lights, and then he quickly rises back up to his feet to quickly rub a hand across his face, cupping his mouth with a hard exhale, "Oh Jesus, Vin... what the hell did you do?"

"I told you I heard gunshots, Tony!" One of the Triggermen snap, an older man dressed in a tawny brown suit with a red handkerchief stuffed sideways in his chest pocket. Apparently some had begun to listen in amongst their own murmured conversation, but his outward exclamation made the rest go silent to listen as well, "That kid of yours blew his cover!"

"We don't know anything yet," Tony turns sharply to address the crowd, "Only thing we do know is someone spilled the beans about where we put Miss Carolyn, and they sent up some Drone's to go get her. Sounds like if it weren't for my boy, she'd be locked down under their watch, and god knows they'd use her to make sure we don't clean house."

"My money's on Dino," Another pipes up with a grumble, "Squirrelly... cheeky little shit wouldn't know class if it came up and bit 'em."

A few members chuckle, while others murmur their agreements.

"Alright, plans change," Tony places both fists on his hips, "Which means we need to get going before they have a chance to pull together some kind of resistance, if they're smart, they'll head up to the front door and block us in, take us out as we come out, or comb through the halls. We need to get up there before they do; they ought to have at least one brain between the lot to figure it out."

"Why don't we just wait and come out when they start lookin' for us," A man in a dark suit and hat pipes up, "We know this vault better than those damn kids."

"Yeah, you gonna be the first one in the hall when they charge with two dozen SMG's?" His neighbour claps back.

"Alright, hey," Tony interrupts before the argument can continue, "If we had all the time in the world, I'd agree with you, but the boss is coming home tomorrow, maybe sooner, and we need to get this place back in shape before he does. For now, we wait to hear back from our runner on Malone's position, get your gear ready, if we don't hear anything in ten minutes, we head topside."

The two seem to reserve any more comments while the rest of them nod and murmur their agreements. When Tony turns back, the room suddenly bursts into activity, the men knocking back any drinks they had, putting out their cigarette's, pulling jackets back on, reloading large black rifles and polishing melee weapons that range from a dulled hickory baseball bat to a rusty crowbar.

Carolyn considers for a moment, that for the first time in days she may finally be somewhere safe, if not in location, in people. These men are not unlike the family she found herself working for exclusively for the last three years of her career before going on maternity leave to have her son. The DiAngelo family, possibly the biggest network of underground crime Boston had ever experienced, and whenever one of them, a headstrong son, a cocky daughter, a stray uncle, or anyone who inherited the last name through marriage, had run into trouble with the law and needed a defence lawyer, she was only a phone call away at a moment's notice, and it was like that for years.

They treated her like family, as far as she was concerned they were like extended family to her as well, and it wasn't until Nate had gotten back from the field that she began to see less of them, she was never sure, but most of the contact stopped a few months into her mat leave. Part of her wondered if they stopped contact because she was no longer their lawyer, or because they were only trying to protect her and her new son.

What she does remember is the correspondence she received a week before the bombs from an anonymous sender about a Vault, not the one that had been under construction in her neighbourhood, the one she walked out of only days ago, but another just North West of it in the mountains, an invitation with regards from a single letter.

 _G._

 _Giovanni DiAngelo_. The head of the family and an all around intimidating figure standing almost seven feet tall with a barrel chest density to match, like a bear standing back on its hind legs, and not the kind of man to antagonize. He'd sent her an exclusive invitation to join him and the families of multiple other crime figures in the Vault when the time finally came for the bombs to drop, enough space for her immediate family, which at the time consisted of only Shaun and Nate, what he called a time sensitive matter and one she shouldn't take lightly. Carolyn of course thought about it for a long while without telling her husband, as she knew how he would feel about sharing a Vault with criminals, but the decision she'd come to didn't matter anyways, not as the sirens alerted them of the impending destruction, and she knew it was too late to give them her answer. Had she actually taken both the offer and threat of global destruction seriously... everything would have turned out very different.

Suddenly, there's a shift and screech of metal from the large maintenance shaft overhead, almost two meters in diameter and ten feet from the ground. A voice hisses down in an alarmed whisper that pulls the attention of everyone within the room, Tony immediately responds, walking directly underneath it and craning his head back.

"Whaddya got?" He calls up.

"He's on his way," The overhead voice announces, "Five minutes tops."

Tony nods, directing his attention back to the crowd of men that shuffle around him, "Alright boys, you heard 'em, Malone's gonna be here any minute, we got a window between when he gets in and when he finds out what happened with Miss Carolyn here, we gotta get her the hell out of here before that, then we can take him and his Malone Drones out before the boss gets back."

Carolyn glances up in alarm as the men begin to make final touches to their assemblage, ready to move, and suddenly she finds herself being guided gently back to her feet without being given an opportunity to ask for more information. She decides instead to keep quiet and trust that they really want to help her, in fact, she believes it on a level that she would think intuitional.

From behind Tony, one of the men calls over to get his attention, Carolyn peers around him to see they're setting up a ladder leading up the maintenance shaft. Tony offers his arm to help her walk and then picks her up from the waist to set her on the top of the ladder, her body twinges with a pinch of sharp pain from her back, but she buries it to keep moving. Two men stand just inside the shaft with a two foot shelf to balance on, they both offer their hands and pull her up. One of them mutters a polite apology and picks her up by the legs, just as tender as her back, so she can reach the man standing at the top of the shaft. Handed up in moments like a bucket of water and she's standing at the top of the shaft in what looks like a store room with two open doors leading out into a construction zone.

From behind her, Tony finishes the climb and joins her side, giving her a quick look to reassure that she's alright, to which she nods, not too worried about mentioning her pain or dizziness from being back on her feet again. They take a moment and wait for the rest of the group to make the ascent, about halfway through when scrambling footfalls echo on the metal grates just outside the doors. Tony reaches back for a pistol stuffed in his belt moments before a man bursts through the open doorway, panting feverishly and holding his hands up submissively to show he's unarmed.

Tony relaxes, but only to the extent of taking his finger off the trigger, obviously he doesn't recognize this man, "Where's my runner?"

"It's okay, I'm with you!" He gasps, "I promise, just listen, I was with the Drone's, we were keeping an eye on the tram, he ran into us on the way back from the tracks further up the sub tunnels looking about ready to piss his pants. He's okay, but they took him into one of the side rooms to ask him why he's so spooked."

"What's going on?" Tony demands, "Did Malone already make it back?"

"He got in earlier than we thought, he's been inside for only a few minutes though," He explains, "But that's not why the runner was so choked, it's... it's the Boss."

Just like that, all the shuffling in the room goes to a stand-still. The tension rising into something horribly unbearable as Tony swallows heavily, audibly, next to Carolyn as she glances up to see the color drain from his face, "How long do we have?"

The man just shakes his head, hands braced on his hips sweat beading down his face in rivers. Tony takes a step forward, "Hey, tell me, _how long do we got!?_ "

"We don't..." He sets his jaw, terror flashing across his face, "He's home."

Carolyn looks back, seeing every man whose face she can see all wearing the same expression of total dismay and fear as the messenger delivers a cryptic answer than causes even her to shake in her core, though she has no idea why.

Tony just exhales shakily in response not a minute following the horrified silence, " _Oh fuck_..."


	12. Bobby Pins

Vincent 'Vinny' Moretti locks the door behind the woman in blue, his fingers twisting the dial and reaching under the end of the panel to yank two of the wires free, effectively cutting the power so it can't be opened from either side until repaired, his hands are shaking, and his breath is hard and burning in his throat as he turns to press his back to the cool metal and polymer frame. None of this is going as planned, as he's more than willing to admit that he's just making shit up on the fly and going with whatever stupid plan pops into his head next.

The Drone's weren't supposed to know about where the woman was moved, and the only guy accompanying Tony who them who wasn't yet a Triggerman was Dino, so either one of Tony's own guys betrayed him or Dino lied about wanting to switch sides. Fucking prick was only ever concerned with saving his own damn hide, he doesn't care about what it really means to join Tony, and Vinny tried to tell his Pop that but he wanted to give that scumbag at least a chance to prove himself otherwise.

Well, he sure as hell did, shit has effectively hit the fan, and right now all Vinny can think of to do is send the lady off to where he knows she'll be safe, and that just leaves the detective to deal with. Looking after the wellbeing of someone who can't handle themselves is terrifying; but at least he knows Mr. Valentine can hold his own.

Hell, he should have known the old bot wouldn't just give the dame up willingly and now Johnny the Hat is dead, and Vinny... he shouldn't feel guilty about what he had to do in order to make sure she got away safe.

Vinny finally pushes himself up from the door, knowing full well that he shouldn't stick around too much longer given the situation is time sensitive, but when he crosses the room again he stops dead at the base of the stairs where the contorted body of Marko 'Big Hands' lay and his stomach flips. It's not anything he hasn't seen before, and he's seen some really messed up shit growing up in the Commonwealth, but this feels different because it wasn't just some random john that took him out, it was is very own hand, using his own gun. He didn't hesitate either, the minute Marko chased after the dame, he knew he couldn't wait around and do nothing. He saw him aiming down at her, threatening her, so Vinny just reacted, aimed his revolver and shot him right in the back of the head.

That was the easy part... it wasn't thoughtful or complicated, it was just something he knew he had to do, but he didn't know how it would make him feel afterwards, and how Marko's dead body would look all crumpled at the base of the stairs. It doesn't look real when it isn't moving; it looks more like some kind of costume prop, a detailed mannequin. It's unnatural, like everything that made him Marko is gone, there's nothing left, and Vinny has to quickly sidestep the corpse as he resists the urge to vomit, ascending the stairs with haste.

He takes the steps two at a time, half jogging down the balcony until he just about rams himself against the terminal next to the office, making sure he had remembered to leave it unlocked, though it doesn't look like the Dick figured that much out.

When he opens it, however, he isn't prepared to immediately find himself staring down the barrel of an SMG.

It's unlocked.

Nick stares at the notch on the door trying to pinpoint if at any point in the past few weeks he'd actually tried to open it through conventional means. What really hits him is that he can't really remember if he had just simply tried the door switch after bobby pins failed.

There's no way it should be unlocked, and in no way is he to assume that it's been unlocked this entire time, because if so, his entire world might have to halt for a minute or two while his processor force reboots to compensate for the strain of his total outrage. No, it's far more likely that the kid had forgotten to lock it behind him in the mad scramble; he managed to forget an entire SMG on his dead superior after all, a young kid, nervous enough to be the first to point his gun.

For the moment, Nick considers it's just chance that he finally finds himself in a fortuitous position after two weeks of the opposite, though in his gut he knows better than to believe in blind luck. The air is wrong here, it can't just be some kind of simple _oops-my-bad_ on the rookie's part.

So the kid left him a weapon, forgot to lock the door behind him, and now Nick has a long list of questions not including his suspicion and hesitation of his own personal sanity. If the kid does happen to be on his side, or on the side of whoever wanted to hide the dame up here with him, he can't help but wonder what would have happened if Nick just let them take her. As it stands... from the ruckus he heard down a level only quietening minutes before now, he suspects he might have done a far better job keeping his heroism to himself. Now she's in real danger, and he has to get out of this hell-hole if he wants to be any kind of help, and half an hour ago he was more than happy to rush the door, take out any Triggermen in his way, and hit the surface faster than anyone could say ' _Rampaging Synth on the Loose'._

Before he has a chance to reach out and twist the dial himself, it slides open. Nick jerks back with his hands gripping hard around the body of the SMG as he aims it directly at the figure revealed, ready to fight his way out until the perp throws his arms high to reveal he's armed, but not open to shooting back, and Nick immediately recognizes him as the young man who'd been in this room not moments ago, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy Mr. Valentine, I ain't gonna do nothin'!"

Nick considers for a moment whether or not to drill him for information while he has both the opportunity and the intimidation factor literally in his hands; however he finds the first thing that actual comes out of his mouth isn't what he expects, " _Where is she?_ "

"The dame is okay, I swear!" The kid takes a shaky step back, "I sent her off to Tony. He'll look after her."

"Tony?" Nick lowers the SMG in his hands, not taking his finger off the trigger, but allowing the kid to relax enough to give him some Intel, "Son, what the _hell_ is going on down here?"

"Look, I ain't got time to explain," He skirts into the office with his hands up as if trying to squeezing between two brick walls, that being the barrel of the SMG and the doorframe, "but we gotta get moving before the Drone's figure out what happened, and they ain't gonna be nice about it either."

Nick watches as the kid folds himself over the desk in the middle of the room to grab at something, apparently his urgency trumps his fear of getting shot, and Nick doesn't know what he means when he talks about any 'Drones', but he has a feeling it has to do with whatever's going on down here, "You got some sort of plan?"

"Meet up with Tony near the entrance," He lifts himself back up with what looks like a Vault-Tec lunchbox that rattles noisily in his approach, "Sneak you out with the dame before anyone gets none the wiser, but we gotta go through the dorms downstairs, I cut the power on the other door."

He's fumbling with the lid now, trying to pry it off to get whatever happens to be inside, and Nick has no idea where the damn thing came from because he's sure he would have noticed it being in here this long, "And if we get caught?" Nick inquires, "We're not exactly easy to miss..."

"I pretend you're the one who killed our guys and let the dame go free; you can't die from getting shot right?"

Nick watches him for a minute, a little bemused, as the lid finally comes off with a comical _pop_ , "Kid, you shoot a radio enough times with a _BB gun_ it ain't gonna keep playing Ink Spots."

He looks up at Nick sheepishly, "Yeah, sorry, I don't know much about the whole, you know, synth thing."

"That's the impression I got, yeah," Nick sighs, "Look, your plan's got holes, but if you really think you call pull off smuggling a synth to the surface, I'm willing to give it a shot... hopefully without actually getting sh- _what the hell are you up to?_ "

The kid pauses in the middle of stuffing what looks like loose ammo in the pocket of his slacks, eyes wide, "Uh, reloadin'?"

"Wh-" Nick turns to look back to the desk, bewildered, "You just had a cache of ammo hidden in the desk?"

"Where else would I put it with all the Drone's runnin' around?" He outwardly shrugs, "No one came up here before you got tossed in. I hid all kinds of neat stuff around the Vault. Hey, you probably ran out of smokes, right? Here."

When the kid reaches into the tin box and pulls out a full unopened pack of cigarettes and holds it out to him, that's when it happens, that's when he loses it, everything immediately goes black. Vinny speaks up after almost a solid thirty seconds of silence on his part, wherein he feels his processor force reboot.

"...H-Hey, Mr. Valentine... you okay?"

Nick finally blinks as his vision resumes, the machinery behind his eyes humming angrily, "Sorry, blacked out there for a second. What'd I miss?"

"Uh," He fumbles with the white box, apparently hesitant to respond, "Guess that means you don't want no smokes?"

Nick reaches out and plucks them from his hand before he can pocket them himself, "No-no, I'll take those, thanks. You wanna go ahead start leading me on this plan of yours? I could really stand to get out of this prison sentence."

"Sure thing, we just need to go before the Drone's come snoopin' around. I don't know how well gunshots echo in here."

Considering Nick could feel when the Vault Door opened just by sitting on the desk, he figures the lot of them are beginning to swarm like a hive of angry Stingwings, "Better than you think, we'd better get moving."

Armed, they close the office behind them as they exit, and Nick feels for the first time in a long time he may actually personally hold a grudge towards any future office space he happens upon in the future. As it stands, he feels the rush of escape flood his circuits and relief beyond words, at least until he and the kid stop dead at the top of the stairs, looking down to see four Drone's lead by Dino all standing around the dead body of the man who knocked him on his hind laying at the base of the stairs.

Next thing he knows, Vinny reaches over and yanks the SMG from his grip, murmuring a quick and almost inaudible apology right before he kicks out the back of his leg, Nick collapses to his knees with a hard gasp, pain shooting up to his hip and flaring alarms in his skull, and immediately all the Drones look up with wide eyes to see Vinny standing over Nick, watching the synth detective freeze as he feels his supposed ally press the barrel of his revolver to the back of his skull.


	13. The Old Times

Underground, within the thick metal walls of a settlement protected from the elements of the nuclear apocalypse, sounds like disembodied voices rebound along every inch of its expanse. Murmurs of conversations long since passed, and echoes of those that lived more than two hundred years ago, ripple through every void space, in every shadow tucked away and untouched by the overhead fluorescents. The voices leak into every room, through the ventilation, the hallways, the doors and windows, but to the residents of Giovanni Tower, they hear the groaning of a settling frame, the creak of metal rails, the maintenance of the outer walls, or the scurry of rodents clawing at the roof to follow the smell of the cafeteria, or the heated inner body fit for residency.

To DiAngelo, these sounds are voices of relatives, of families passed, the imprints of the dead, and as natural as his own beating heart. Simply the residual energies of those who lived and died within these very walls, like tossing a small flat rock into a pond or lake of still water and watching the ripples expand and disappear into the distance, there's assurance that those disruptions are going to keep right on going until they hit the opposite shore line, only to bounce and come back in faded echoes right to the very spot where the rock first hit the water. The evidence of that rock will always be at the bottom of that lake or pond, and the water forever altered by its presence.

People don't disappear, as much as everyone down here wants to convince themselves in their grief. There's always going to be leftovers that they want to dismiss as anything other than a normal hum of their life underground. That's what DiAngelo wanted to think when he was a kid, because it honestly made it hard to sleep knowing that his great grand-dad Giovanni could be in the room with him, standing over his bed in the dark and watching him. His Ma told him if he was, he was only making sure he was happy and getting enough sleep. It helped, and as he grew, it felt more and more like a constant family reunion. It got comfortable, and eventually, it was like closing his eyes and having another pair still open.

When he became a man, he had his first venture out into the Commonwealth. The _Out Walk_ , the kids named it, something that ended up being the official-unofficial title, and he was so damn sure that it was going to be everything he wanted, that he'd go out and feel like that was where he was supposed to be. He was complacent, not at all thankful for his family or his comfortable life, his Ma must have known what was going to happen.

Taking that first step out into the open, under the bright morning sky with pink clouds and a cool breeze was the most alive he's ever felt in his entire life, he took a deep breath of that fresh, crisp air, and started his Out Walk down into an open field, leaning down to brush the grass, the softest thing he's ever touched, his feet felt like they were sinking into the ground, it wasn't solid like metal, he felt like he was about to trip on every step.

For a moment lasting about two minutes before he felt something else, a sudden awareness of a growing crowd, and in seconds he was suddenly standing the in the middle of a field full of people. The whispers grew around him, curious murmurs that were on a scale so unfathomable to him that he gasped, flinching upwards, his spine fused straight up in alarm.

It was a mistake, reacting to the voices was a rookie class fuck up and he knew it the moment it happened. His Ma always told him, drilled it into his skull, but he wouldn't fucking listen to her. He knew better, he was eighteen and of course he knew better than his Ma because every boy on the cusp of manhood all thought the same damn thing and all of them are so fucking wrong.

The young DiAngelo, standing frozen in that field should have run, he should have turned heel and sprinted back to the Tower with his pride between his legs, but instead he stood his ground backed by confidence and assurance that he could do it, that by some miracle he could handle what was coming his way.

It was silent for about ten seconds before they knew, they knew he could hear them, see them, feel them, and they all came rushing from the stands and straight to the center like a tidal wave, from the foundations, the trees, under the rocks, and from the ground. A horde of them all sprinting towards him, their low curious murmurs crescendo into desperate shrieks that filled the air like scraping metal, pleading him, begging him, threatening, cursing, crying, howling, assaulting him with the terror of their final moments, their fury, and grief. Their hands were tearing at his suit, scraping against his skin with hot branded burns, tossing him to the ground, climbing over him like pounds of cold, heavy earth until he couldn't breathe.

Overwhelmed with absolute terror, tears streaming down his face, he screamed, he screaming until it hurt, clawing his way free, gasping for breath, and begging them to leave him alone, to go away, he cursed at them, hollered, clambered to his feet and ran. He ran until he was back inside the Tower, and then he collapsed to his knees and sobbed like a kid, a weak and pathetic little boy. His Ma was at his side, holding him close to her, stroking his hair, telling him he was going to be alright.

It wasn't until after he'd calmed down that she scolded him, he didn't even resent her for it, because he knew he deserved every word. He'd felt like a stupid child who couldn't wait to grow up and jumped the fence before he knew what it meant to be a man.

Even know, twenty years later, he's too afraid to ask her if she'd known.

Adjacent to his bedroom suite, DiAngelo stands in the single bathroom, leaning over the sink half-full of hot soapy water, bubbles stained dark with oil and grime from helping the engineers down in the fusion reactor core.

With a single swipe of his hand to clear the steam, the mirror reveals the reflection of his face as a flash of silver catches light from the overhead fluorescents, a gleam quickly following the line of a wall that stops to rest against sun darkened skin sitting over the angle of a squared jaw bone. A polished straight razor glides upwards against the grain of three day unkempt facial hair, gathering white foam and quarter inch black stubble with each stroke, leaving behind nothing but the slight discoloration of scar tissue and faded burns. Hands expertly glide the blade over the uneven skin under his jaw, around the sharp features without nicking the skin, and shaping the sideburns next to his ears leaving a diagonal tip resembling a mat knife. He leaves the accumulated growth over his upper lip, a long moustache curling around to the corners of his mouth, and a small goatee patch under his bottom lip.

A large burn, faded with the passage of time, stretches over his right brow, across the wide, crooked bridge of his nose, and under the socket of his left eye. Some of his scars are light and blanched, while others gouge deep like the line through his thick brow, and they litter his face with favour his right side like his right hand favours the lead of attack, the result of actively choosing force over dexterity. Not anything he ultimately regrets, it's like a visual score sheet of all the times he could have died, but didn't, refused to. Like the tallies of his victories and a list of reasons why his enemies should be wary of any future assaults. He'd rather have that then a smooth complexion of a fucking coward.

His hands brush over his cheeks and under his chin, rubbing rough and calloused fingers over a shave so close that the only indication of the growth he'd had twenty minutes ago is the natural discoloration of his shadow. Satisfied, he empties the sink and rinses the blade, placing it on a folded square of cloth inside the medicine cabinet before dabbing a damp towel against his face to clear away any access foam.

Back out in the bedroom suite, he first pulls on a fresh white dress top to go over his muscle shirt and black suspenders, buttoning it half way before grabbing the faded leather jacket sitting tossed over the end of his desk chair. Shoulders and elbows stiff with padded brown leather armour matching the patches on the knees of his cargos, an addition he made a few years back that still holds strong.

On his bed, a duffle bag sits already packed and waiting for his departure, he slings it over his shoulder and adjusts the weight.

On the floor next to the coffee table in the adjacent living room he crosses on his way out, he spots a small teddy bear tucked halfway under the end of the couch. It's a sad little thing, stitched from head to toe with repairs, a two missing eyes, patches, and a lolling head that won't stay up. The kid must have left it here by accident, might be a good thing; he's been trying real damn hard to replace it. It's sentimental to the kid, hideous, but sentimental. Rob said that the reason he won't let it go is because the kid's Mom gave it to him when he was a baby, then he joked about it being all banged up and ugly, and kind of reminds him of DiAngelo.

The kid laughed, which was enough that he wasn't about to cuff the squirt's Dad in front of him, as much as he wanted to. It wasn't much better than his last joke, in which he equated DiAngelo to an upright Yao Guai with cologne and a close shave. No one was around to stop him from firmly shoving his elbow right into his gut that time.

Of course then Rob only laughed through pained gasps all keeled over on the floor like DiAngelo hadn't done a damn thing. His jokes were only funny to his kid, but that didn't stop him from making them when the skinny little tot wasn't around. Seeing Rob laugh like that, especially considering all he's been through, well... maybe it ain't too bad he was having a little fun at DiAngelo's expense.

Leaving his suite, teddy bear in hand, he turns the lights off, and locks the door behind him. Come to think of it, he'd better say goodbye to the kid before he goes, he'll never hear the end of it otherwise.

He finds it's a hell of a lot easier to leave when there's no one around to watch him go. He makes a habit of leaving early before anyone rouses; get away without saying much, especially when everyone is hoping he'd decide to stay for good his next visit. Sure, he'd thought about it, sticking around and growing old, but his calling has always been to the outside, no matter how many of his people try to convince him otherwise.

When DiAngelo steps in to the Tower's dimly lit clinic on his way down, only one overhead light beaming down near the doorway, he spots a man sitting behind a desk near one of the observation rooms, rapidly tapping at the keys on his terminal, and, like he already would have guessed a million times over, the poor bastard looks ragged. His brown hair is sticking up short in all directions, large framed glasses sitting low on his nose to reveal the purplish shadows under his eyes and the red in his whites, slouched over with a half empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten at his left. So entranced by whatever it is that he's doing, that he doesn't notice DiAngelo approach until he slams his hand down inches from the keyboard.

" _ **GUH-jesus!**_ " The willowy man jerks up with a massive start; he's easily spooked even without distraction so DiAngelo never gets tired of scaring the shit out of him whenever he gets the chance, especially since it's his duty as the older brother to pick on his brother-in-law.

"Pack your bags, we head out in five," DiAngelo states, smothering his urge to cackle relentlessly at his expense.

He shoves his glasses back up his face, refocusing on the taller man as he looms over the desk, his face now beet red, "I, what, but-I,"

"Did I stutter?"

"No-No, but I have work to-" He gestures to the terminal and DiAngelo reaches down and presses the off button with a roll of his eyes, causing the screen to go black and the light to stop shining on his brother's pasty skin.

"Let one of the trainees take over for a while," He's not giving him a chance to refuse, not while DiAngelo outranks him in more than one area, "you're commin' down to Boston with me."

"B-Boston?" He yelps, pointing to the general direction of the Tower entrance, " _You mean out there?_ "

"That gonna be a problem?" DiAngelo crosses his arms.

The scrawny man opens his mouth with what was sure to be an anxious list of reasons why it's a bad idea for him to leave the Tower, especially considering his lack of combat experience and the fact that he's an eternal pacifist that's refused to even fire a gun once, but DiAngelo already knows what he's going to say and beats him to the punch by reaching down and shoving his entire hand over his face and glasses.

"That was rhetorical, you don't have a choice," He shoves the man back into his chair, lightly, but his glasses still fall halfway down his face as the chair rolls back a few inches.

DiAngelo watches impatiently, and a little amused, as his brother gives up trying to argue and scrambles to gather his medical supplies. He never really understood what it was that made his sister go crazy for him, could be that she's always liked being in charge, especially physically. Sure... he's cute in a kind of shambling-tower-of-awkward kind of way, but it was still a surprise for a lot of people in the family.

"I-I just need to go check on Brook..." With his black leather doctor satchel plastered to his chest, he points his thumb to the door.

"Sure, but if you don't haul ass to the front door in ten minutes I'm coming back in here to drag you out by your lab coat, got it?" DiAngelo watches as his brother clambers ungracefully out the door and follows suit, locking the clinic behind him to make sure none of the teens sneak a hit of Med-X while the head doctor is out.

Brook, DiAngelo's younger sister, is having a baby soon, but his brother-in-law can't quite seem to piece together a due date for him to be present by, there's a good chance that he's going to miss the birth, and there isn't a member of either family that'll let him forget it. Probably the reason he's up so early, or, didn't sleep at all.

On his way to see the kid next, he considers for a moment how he avoids seeing anyone but him before he goes, even though the little squirt is probably one of a handful of people who could convince him to stick around. It's not that he's just real cute, it's that he doesn't sleep much, he's nightmare prone and still really weak from his recovery process, not two inches of meat on his bones and a mop of stringy blonde hair that's dulled almost grey. It's funny that he says his favourite teddy bear looks like DiAngelo, because the little plush looks more like him, with a few less scars.

And yeah... he worries.

In one of the shared bedrooms, he does his best to approach the bed on the end quietly as the kid's roommates, three older boys, lay sleeping soundly. He kneels next to the short frame, feeling like a giant in comparison more so than he already does, and pulls the end of the blanket back to tuck the teddy bear in, the kid rouses awake almost immediately, though he was expecting that.

"Are you going?" He asks in a tiny and very anxious voice, not unlike his brother-in-law, and he can't help but picture the squirt easily outgrowing his dad in terms of height.

DiAngelo tucks the blanket back over so it looks like the bear is cuddling next to him, "Yeah, kiddo, I gotta get back to work."

He pulls the teddy close and stuffs his nose against the matted and balding fur, his expression relaxing a little, relieved through his stuffed companions company, it should help him sleep, "Is my Dad coming next time?"

"I'll make sure of it," He smirks as the kid's large blue eyes smile up at him, "But only if you get some sleep, eat a big breakfast, and be good to your Nan."

"Okay," His muffled agreement sounds like it's coming from the bear, and with that, DiAngelo moves to stand up and leave, but not before the kid reaches out and grips the sleeve of his jacket with an impossibly tiny hand, "Hank...?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Does my Dad like me?"

DiAngelo pauses, and immediately kneels back down to sit almost eye level with him, "Did he say he didn't?"

"No..."

"What did he say when you saw him last?"

"He said that he loves me," He hides more of his face behind the bear, his voice going even quieter, "... but he hasn't come back yet, is he staying away because he doesn't want to see me?"

DiAngelo sighs, reaching out to put his large hand on the kids head and moving some of the hair away with his thumb, "Your Dad is real busy, like me. He comes when he can, he's working real hard to make sure you're happy, and when he doesn't come around as often, it means he's working extra hard."

His eyes go glassy and he looks down to his teddy bear, "Are you going to be my new Dad if he doesn't come back?"

DiAngelo can feel his chest lock up, but that doesn't stop him from answering immediately, leaning down to make sure he's looking directly at him when he speaks, "I need you to listen to me kiddo, your Dad loves you so much it kills him to be away. He's going to keep coming back because even if he gets stuck, or hurt, I'm going to make sure of it, okay?"

His little sniffles are almost DiAngelo's undoing, as much as he doesn't want to leave the kid right now, he has to, "...okay."

"You trust me?"

"Yeah..."

"Then I'll promise you, okay?" He gently nudges the tot's cheek so he'll look him in the eye, "I promise you that I'm not going to let anything bad happen to your Dad."

"But what if _you_ don't come back?" He whimpers.

DiAngelo smirks, "I'm like a Yao Guai, remember? There isn't anything scary enough to take me down."

The kid giggles, and when DiAngelo gets a quiet promise from him that he's going to behave, go right to sleep, and do his best to stay positive, he stands back up and leaving the room with quiet steps. He hates having to leave him like this when he's scared about never seeing his dad again, but he's true to his word when he promises that he'll never let anything bad happen to Rob, not while he's breathing.

He finally makes it down to the security floor and passes one of the night shift security guards as he sits half asleep behind the desk in the Vault Door Control Office. DiAngelo gives him light a salute, to which he responds with a languid nod. He about to motion for him to open the Vault door, before an echo of scrambling footsteps approaching quickly reminds him that he planned on having company for this trip. His brother slows from a jog to a full stop in front of DiAngelo wearing a light jacket, Brook's jacket, over his white lab coat, a small overstuffed backpack over his shoulder along with his doctor bag.

He looks ridiculous.

"How'd she take it?" DiAngelo's smiling wide, he can't help it.

Panting, he pushes his glasses up with a finger, "I didn't wake her, sleep is good for the baby."

"That the excuse you're gonna use after she finds out you're gone?"

"I thought I'd push the blame to you, considering you're dragging me out practically kicking and screaming," His cheeks go red and he pushes his glasses up again, this time out of nervous habit rather than necessity, "I actually left her a carefully structured note, vitamins to take, food groups to stay away from, reminding her not to let her blood pressure increase-"

The alarms suddenly blare overhead, interrupting his diet monologue as DiAngelo had given the guard a silent gesture to open the door. His brother quickly snaps his mouth shut, brows furrowing, as he knows damn well he did it on purpose.

DiAngelo takes lead and lets the grated pathway extend before him, with his brother hesitant to follow, they step out into a large damp cavernous tunnel that stretches before them for as far as either of them can see, which, considering its dark as hell, is not very far.

The tunnel soon turns, funnelling open into a subway track and station with dual tracks. As far as he knew, the trains were the only way to get to the Vault in pre-war and therefore the one way out, which is fine, but they sit purposely collapsed, a two hundred year old decision that left it clogged by debris, boulders, and thousands of tons of dirt. The only way to the surface now is through a series of maintenance hallways and stairs that open into a room from a previously concealed hatch panel in the floor of an abandoned depot building, some kind of backdoor entrance that the Vault's original owners had constructed for convenience. His brother-in-law manages to keep up with him, his eyes on the dark following the both of them like he was worried something would come up and bite his ass.

Outside of the depot, they step out into an early morning dawn greeting an empty sky and promising a nice start to the journey back to Boston. The old wood balcony creaks under their feet as they take a quick breather, and behind, the mountains stretching taller than either of them can see, shrouding the path ahead with a dense shadow that should only hold the chill for an hour before the sun peaks up over the expanse. He inhales the crisp air, a familiar sense of adoration settling in his chest as he stares out into the horizon.

"So, uh," His brother clears his throat, only momentarily distracted by their beautiful surroundings before his anxious energy forces his attention back at the matter of their travel ahead, "How long is it going to take to get there?"

"Two days if the weather holds up," He reaches over and pats him on the back hard enough to knock the breath out of him, "Come on, we'd better get going while the sky is clear."

"Yes, I've heard the Out Walkers talk about the strange weather," He coughs, readjusting his pack that looks far too full to be easy to carry, "The radiation in the ozone and atmosphere would no doubt cause quite a bit of sporadic weather patterns-"

DiAngelo turns and puts his hand up to interrupt his scientific observation, "Try to keep most of that to yourself, alright? I don't usually spend this trip talking about how fucked up the environment is, trust me, you'll have plenty to keep you on your toes without all the idle chit-chat."

With a light nod, he pushes his glasses up his nose again, smiling flatly. He doesn't want to spend the next two days talking about the after effects of radiation, mostly because any kind of talking would make them targets, silence is safe, and the less they're prone to attack, the better. DiAngelo is going to have to make sure that his brother doesn't get himself killed, or make it hard for him to make sure he doesn't get himself killed. It might chalk up to be a long couple of days.

Something's wrong.

There's no sound coming through the tunnels, not a single echo of footfalls or chatter, everything is silent. It shouldn't be the case, there ought to be at least a dozen men patrolling the tunnels for any ghouls or ballsy travellers, to have it completely empty during the day is unheard of and it gives him a looming sense of dread. He smells something off in the air, even as he opens himself up a little, a small hole that allows him to feel for the presence of anything passed, and all he gets is white noise, even the dead are silent.

His brother, managing to survive the journey none the worse for wear, stands behind him with his own anxious energy beginning to overwhelm the small hallway leading out into the subway tunnels, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," DiAngelo hums, his shoulders going tense as his hand wraps firmly around the grip of his .44 magnum revolver, "but I don't like it."

If the two of them hadn't been almost dead quiet throughout the entire trip there, they certainly are now. As they approached the door of Vault 114, it sits wide open and funnelling out more of the weary silence that makes his hair stand up. It's not just fear he feels, fear of what might have happened to his Triggermen while he was gone, but rage, pure and unmitigated fury that his brother can feel so heavy in his presence that he actually slows his pace to gain some distance.

DiAngelo actually throws his hand out to stop him as they reach the top of the stairs, a silent command to stay put as he walks over the grate and into the lobby where stacks of crates line almost every bit of open space, new loot that he didn't authorize. He reaches down and picks up a clip board to see a long list of names attached to known settlements and independent caravans, long red streaks through more than half of them and one or two crossed out completely. From looking at the sheer volume of supplies, calculating a quick estimate of cost, it would have been a fortune to purchase from each separate caravan.

No, it wouldn't make sense to buy from several sources at once; someone stole all of it.

When he hears the dual doors slide open, revealing the hall leading further into the Vault, he doesn't even flinch. In fact, his back is straight, and there's a certain eerie calm to the boiling inferno slowly building up in his chest as he looks over to address the crowd that shuffles into the room. Tossing the clip board back onto the crate, he watches the Triggermen, no... Not Triggermen, but a group of men in suits carrying large weapons and nothing else but various expressions of bravado, follow a certain familiar and pudgy looking man with the nickname 'Skinny' Malone.

With over two dozen men at his back, and a pretty broad at his side wearing a tight blue sequin dress and wielding a large blood stained hickory bat, Malone steps up with two meters to separate him and the man who'd he'd called 'boss' with the utmost respect not a month ago.

DiAngelo doesn't need to be any kind of intellectual savant to know exactly what had happened in his absence.

"Well, well, looks who's finally home," Malone opens his arms as a mock friendly gesture, much to the amusement of his followers, "See, Hank, that's the thing about not stickin' around to make sure your guys ain't-"

 _ **BOOM.**_

Malone didn't see it, didn't see the way DiAngelo's hand had moved like smoke to the grip of his revolver after dropping the clip board, and judging from the lack of general surprise on the mock mobster's face as he pulled it from his holster, aimed it almost point blank, and pulled the trigger all in a motion that took not a second, he wasn't expecting DiAngelo to skip the monologue.

Malone's head explodes out from the back, hat blown off by the shot, and his short and heavy body crumples to the floor like a bag of wet sand. DiAngelo recoils his weapon, staring at his crowd of followers as they all gape wide eyed, all bravado and condescending attitudes dead next to their boss, and judging from their expressions, especially the ones in the front who got a hefty splatter of Malone's grey matter, they weren't expecting their leader to be so ripe.


	14. Fever

In the center of the second floor overlooking the cafeteria, Nick Valentine sits perched up on his knees with a visually loose composure that does a decent enough job at portraying a lack of interest or intimidation regarding his least favourite person in the entire vault. He watches the so-called mobster, Dino, as he circles Nick like some kind of old predatory bird, trying to put out an air of control that he's sure he doesn't have the gall to really posses, while Nick himself is only stewing in an attitude of intense exasperation.

"Well, well, well..." The bastard tosses his SMG between his sweaty paws, Nick tenses up at the prospect of him fumbling it and risking a barrage of loose rapid fire the second it hits the floor. He'd tell him to watch it, but he's already had his fair share of blunt force trauma for today, the ache in his knee is a quick and sharp reminder of Vinny's quick thinking when they found themselves suddenly faced to face with a group of Drones... though he would have preferred not to have been at the receiving end of it.

"Honestly, Valentine, I'm hurt," Dino continues, opening his arms in a wide gesture to display Nick's own trench coat which he'd commandeered along with his hat for the foreseeable taunts, it honestly looks terrible on him, "Deciding to risk your ass for some dame like you didn't learn your damn lesson after getting your ass kicked by Darla, come on man. You ain't got no reason to be doin' none of that."

Ah, the mobsters triple negative...

"You should've just joined the big leagues with us like I went and told you instead of jerking around Diamond City with a bunch of nobodies who don't want to give you the time of day," He grins, "Me n' the boys would love to have a novelty hangin' around, like one of them old timey bobble-heads you had keepin' you company up in the office."

Nick glances over to his goons as they stand off to the side, three johns watching the scene with minimal interest or occupying their hands by checking their firearms. They probably think just as much about Dino as he does; a dumb loud mouth who thinks he's in charge but is really only tolerated.

"Yeah, I'll pass..." Nick says after a moment.

The oldest of the three, having at least the decade on the other two who appear young enough to have training wheels on their SMG's, jerks his chin in the detectives direction, "Dino, just take the dick out, we got bigger problems."

" _What was that_?" Dino swings around, "You tryin' to tell me what to do now? Malone put _me_ in charge of the dick, not you, so I got the final say on what to do with 'em, not any of you guys."

The drone only rolls his eyes, "He didn't put you in charge of shit, moron."

Dino suddenly jabs the barrel of his gun against Nick's forehead and the detective jerks, immediately he finds himself longing for the good ole' days when he was doing paper work back in Diamond City and no one went around waving a gun and beating the tar out of him.

"You want me to take the dick out, huh?" Dino sneers, "Is that what you want Paulie?"

Vinny, the kid who helped him out of the office, had been standing back out of Nick's view, doing a fine job of feigning his role in the detectives capture, but seeing the situation escalate, he immediately leaps into action, jumping up out of his silent stand-by before the unthinkable can happen, "Dino, come on man, Malone had him locked up for a reason, if he's gonna wack him, let him do the dirty work."

"You think you know the boss better than me, Vinny?" Dino presses the barrel against Nick's metal cranium with more force but the detective doesn't dare say a word in protest, or make any sound for that matter, he's too sure that Dino might pull the trigger out of anger rather than intent, "You been here, what, three weeks and you think you can tell me what to do?"

When Vinny smiles at him, it's with the smarm and attitude of a too good to be true, pre-war mobster. Nick didn't think the kid had it in him. He steps closer and leans in towards his friend with an arm swiftly hooking around his shoulders in order to speak in confidence like neither of them really considered Nick still kneeling on the floor.

"You know D, Malone is already pretty pissed at you for cheatin' the game of cards last week," Vinny murmurs, "What's he gonna do when he finds out you took the dick out without askin' 'em first?"

Dino grits his jaw tight, still angry but there's a sudden glimmer of fear in his eyes like he's willing to surrender to a john half his age before the threat of Malone's wrath, "What do you think I should do then, huh?"

"Forget 'em," Vinny waves a hand dismissively in Nick's direction, "Like your boys said, we got bigger fish to fry. Just lock 'em back up and deal with 'em later when things cool down."

"And risk 'em goin' nuts again?" Dino argues if only for the sake of trying to keep his leadership role, and for that, Nick is somewhat grateful. Anything was honestly better than ending up back in that damned office, "No dice, if we're keepin' 'em alive, we're bringin' 'em with us."

"Hey, it's your call, D. You're in charge here," Vinny pats him on the shoulder and then nods towards Nick, "You want me to grab 'em for you, make sure he doesn't try nothin'?"

Dino considers it for a moment, and then looks back down to Nick as he withdraws his SMG which more than likely left an indentation and the detective allows himself to relax, if only just a little. It's still two on four, but with Vinny managing to talk his way through Dino's thick skull, they might have a fair shot at taking them out.

"Alright," He finally agrees, "Let's blow this joint."

Vinny reaches down and grabs Nick by the collar, pulling him up and getting him to his feet, making a display of handling him callously before he shoves him forward. Nick lurches with a slight limp as the pain from his knee shoots up his leg and sends a red flag directly through his processor letting him know that Vinny more than likely knocked something loose when he kicked it out from under him earlier.

Just as Dino turns to address the uninterested goons to let them know they're all heading out to god-knows-where at this point, Nick feels the pressure of Vinny pressing something hard and angular against the small of his back. Without glancing over his shoulder, he reaches back and his hand wraps around what feels like the grip of a revolver or pipe pistol.

"Alright boys, we're headin' back, the dick is coming with us, so watch your asses." Dino announces, but as the turn of phrase is delivered with no doubt of seriousness, the two younger Drones are immediately sent into reels of laughter. Doubled over against each other and the only two who appear to get what's so funny.

Nick gets it... unfortunately.

The third, older, Drone reaches out and shoves the kid closest to him with a glower, "Hey, get your fuckin' act together, the hell is wrong with you two?"

"Can you guys not hear yourselves!?" The one on the right exclaims, "You're talkin' about dick so much, it's got us asking questions!"

"God fuckin' damn it, Matt, it's the lingo, we're not talkin' about his fuckin' wang, alright?" He snarls, "I don't even think he's fuckin' got one."

"Well, who the fuck decided we start calling detectives 'dick'?"

A few meters away from the immediate argument, Vinny gently taps Nick on the back to motion him to walk forwards, and as they do, he calls out to their meat-headed 'leader' as he stands aside trying to figure out why the hell his men are shouting at each other, "Hey, Dino, you got anything to cuff him with?"

Dino drops his hands, sighing with reservation, and turns to Vinny, reaching into his slacks to retrieve the object in question, "Yeah, I got a pair right here-"

The very instant his eyes flicker down to his pants, Nick feels Vinny move and decides in that moment to make a move as well. The two pull their weapons out in a synchronistic flash, silver gleams off the pistol Nick was given, a large revolver, and it comes up square to press into the center of Dino's noggin, hard to the skin as the meat-head looks up, cuffs in hand, to see what he just walked into. His eyes are glazed and slow, but it quickly registers in his face only seconds before Vinny open fires on the three Drones amidst their squabble. Their bodies drop hard with a series of quick split-second yelps that end their life before they hit the floor.

Nick slowly cocks the hammer back on the revolver, and the satisfaction that floods through him is damn near euphoric, "I'd like my hat and jacket back...If it's not too much trouble."

He can almost hear Dino wet himself, cherry on his damn sundae.

Luckily enough for the dolt, he doesn't want to shoot him as much as he wants to keep the bloody after-math from ruining his jacket and hat. Dino seems to sense this and swallows heavily, laboured like he's trying to choke down a bite bigger than he could chew, "Y-yeah, sure thing Nicky."

He begins to awkwardly shrug the jacket off, and Vinny walks over from nervously nudging the three fresh bodies to make sure they're not getting back up. Nick can see that he's tense, his face lined with fear and stress, that and he looks like he's going to hurl.

"You okay, kid?" Nick asks.

Vinny glances over at him and nods, chuckling anxiously, "Just... didn't think I'd be shootin' so many johns today, y'know?"

Nick smiles sympathetically, given that this kid is easily less than twenty years old. He can imagine children younger than him are subject to even worse, one of the harsh truths about growing up in the Commonwealth.

Nick goes to offer words of encouragement, or at least understanding, but a loud gunshot suddenly goes off from deep within the confines of the Vault, its echo seeping in through the cafeteria doorway beneath them and loud enough to funnel sound throughout the open areas not directly sealed by a doorway. Nick jerks his head towards the sound, and for that moment of silence following he's just listening.

"What the hell-?" Vinny starts to speak, but Nick holds up a hand and shushes him.

That's when he can hear it, barely audible, but it follows on the tail of the last fading reverberations of the gunshot, a scream, not one of shock or surprise, but a blood curdling shriek of pain, a wail of fear and desperation that locks his gears and sends a flood of images reeling through his head of the woman he'd tried to save and along with it, fear that his rash and impulsive thinking signed her death warrant. Vinny said she was safe with Tony, but how long was that going to last in an underground prison filled to the brink with angry johns?

Despite the pain in his leg and most certainly the danger to himself that it imposes, he turns on heel, snatching the Fedora from atop Dino's head, the jacket from his extended hand, but doesn't bother returning Vinny's pistol before he runs towards the right door on the far side of the room across the rails.

"Hey, Valentine, wait!" Vinny yells after him, "You got two dozen johns between you and the exit!"

When Nick makes it to the door that Vinny locked shut, he sees the wires that the kid had yanked out dangling under the control panel and for a moment suddenly dreads that his rescue might be cut short. Without much more than a hunch, he grabs them both between the fingers of his metal degloved hand and shoves them back up where they'd been connected. The light over the dial flickers and he feels a stumbling current of electricity vibrate through his fingers like a makeshift conductor, humming up his arm and numbing the joint of his elbow. He flicks the dial switch to open with his opposite hand and prays it'll be enough.

The door jerks, and after a second or two, it slides less than halfway open at less than half the speed it normally would, but Nick takes it nevertheless. He yanks his hand back out to cut the last reserves of power which locks it in place.

As he squeezes himself through the opening he created, he can hear Vinny call after him with a sudden alarm that he doesn't register until he's through and thoroughly committed to his target.

"Hey! What do I do with Dino?!" The young Triggerman's voice follows him up the hall and ultimately falls on deaf ears.

There wasn't a lot of time for Carolyn to catch her breath, not after the runner delivered the news. Tony mobilized the Triggermen in seconds and soon the entire group began jogging through the open construction zone across the grated walkways, up and around to the next concealed hallway resembling a small subway tunnel, she's not sure. Tony keeps his arm around her shoulders to guide her along at the front of the pack so she doesn't get lost in the hustle, she's grateful for the aid, given that there's no way she can keep up without it, especially on the stairs. Exhaustion creeps up into her neck and head now like a hot fever, she finds it impossible to think straight, aching so terribly everywhere else she can only think about the relief of settling down on a soft bed after a hot bath. Something she's sure is no longer a commodity, but nevertheless she craves the comfort like nothing else.

When the group finally comes to an abrupt stop it's because Tony throws his arm out, stiffly, without a word. Carolyn doesn't register at first where she is, standing just inside another dimly lit room with an open door, boxes stacked in front of the barred windows, but she can hear voices. Tony shuffles forward with Carolyn still at his side as though he'd forgotten at that moment she were still under his grasp, and hovers around the door just enough to peer out into the next room. That's when she sees him.

Standing in front of an unfamiliar overweight mobster with his large silver handgun pointing to the square of his forehead stands a giant of a man. He's easily seven feet tall, almost impossibly large for the bulk of his frame. There's only a fraction of a second where she can't quite grasp that the giant intends to shoot his target, thinking it would be like an old movie where it's an empty threat, a warning and display of superior ground, but the sound of the gunshot rings in the air without hesitation, and it's so painfully overwhelming. The crack is like a firework much too loud for the small space, and to her it sounds so familiar to the shot she'd heard behind the glass of the cryo-chamber that she jerks back with a hard gasp and covers her ears, bile rising in her throat as she can suddenly hear the same echo as it bounces off of the walls in Vault 111, hearing the shrill cries of her infant son as the hateful and remorseless face of a man comes into view from the other side of the cloudy glass.

The stark silence that follows is all around her, from the Triggermen at her back, to Tony at her side, and the group of young men that had the dead mobsters back, but in what feels like seconds, the wail of a woman erupts through the air, howling an unintelligible name as she lunges towards the giant. She's wearing a shimmering blue dress that catches the light as she moves, wielding a bat that she lifts to strike the assailant across the head, but his hand comes up like a bolt of lightning and catches it, his only reaction being the sound of it slapping against his hard skin, and the darkened expression stretched across his terrifying glower.

He then lifts one of his mud caked boots and stomps hard onto her bare shin.

The woman yelps as her entire body buckles, tearing her grip from the bat as her pallid limb bends in an unnatural contortion under the weight. The precision of his hard and powerful kickcauses a muted and dull _**SNAP**_ to echo out into the awe-struck silence. Carolyn watches with hot and nauseating horror as the woman's scream of agony immediately follows, all colour drained from her face in a cold sweat as she wraps her hands white knuckled around her thigh, curling in on herself as the man's boot lifts away to reveal the exaggerated indentation from where the bone shattered as her screams continue to echo throughout the hollow metal room. It takes everything out of Carolyn to force back the impending urge to vomit, she feels Tony adjust his grip to compensate her weight as she staggers and falls to her knees in shock.

With the woman's bat in his hands and unaffected by her agony, the giant looks over the blood stained piece of hickory with score marks clearly identified through the natural wood stain. His lips press tight together, unimpressed, and just as easily as he broke her leg, he snaps the bat clean in two over his knee. The splinters shoot out in a burst, and the wood clatters onto the metal floor next to his feet as both pieces bounce hollowly against the linoleum.

He steps over the woman's writhing body and approaches the crowd of young men who witnessed the display, they all shuffle back in tense and fearful recoil as he slaps his palm against his closed fist, snapping his fingers and creating a tuneless and casual, yet incredibly unsettling rhythm.

In seconds, he has demonstrated with ruthless calculation that he is the most dangerous person in the room.

"Evening boys," His voice is hard and thick; a low tone that's almost malicious, sharp like the claws of an animal he resembles and with mock pleasantry, he opens his arms to motion to the lot, "Any of you seen Tony?"

Vinny stands silent within the few moments of Mr. Valentine disappearing through the partially open door on the other side of the cafeteria's balcony, the young Triggerman finds himself stepping towards the door like he's battling an urge to follow right after him, but he can't just leave Dino here by himself. Who knows what this jerk could get up to?

"Great, now that he's gone you can let me off the hook, right?" Dino is pallid with fear as he looks up to Vinny, "I didn't do nothing wrong, you know that, I was just actin' tough so the boys wouldn't hurt me. You know how it is!"

Now that he's not trying to be his friend, Vinny finds that he doesn't have to choke down his anger towards this bastard. He makes his intentions known right off the bat by spinning back around and kicking Dino right in the gut, sending the drone to his knees with a gasp and sputtering coughs.

"Shut your goddamn trap, Dino, I ain't lettin' you off!" Vinny snaps at him, reaching down to grab the cuffs he dropped and use them to lock both of his hands behind his back, "Get up, come on!"

With Dino quickly scrambling to his feet as well as a john can with his hands cuffed, Vinny begins to lead him back up the stairs towards the overseer's office, Dino is curled in and limping the entire way, looking up to see the door and terminal much to his confusion and sudden alarm.

"H-hey, what're you doin'?!" He gasps out.

The second the door is open, Vinny shoves Dino into the office, almost tripping on the outstretched arm of the drone that Mr. Valentine took care of. This time he makes sure to lock the door behind him and resets the password to something Dino doesn't know, and sure as shit wouldn't know, hell he wouldn't care if the bastard ended up rotting in there.

"V-Vinny, come on man! Don't leave me in here, there's a dead body!" He shouts, muffled by the glass of the overseer's window, "Oh god, it's startin' to stink up the joint!"

"Then it's a good thing you're a mouth breather as well as a traitor and a coward, Di," Vinny shouts back, "If shit goes south for your boys, hell, even if it doesn't, you're gonna be up here for a long time. Try not to breathe through your nose too much."

Vinny grins at the startled expression on Dino's face, leaving the drone to stew in his panic as he leaves and starts to walk back down the hall, he keeps his pace slow to really savour the pleads that Dino continues to shout through the glass, apologizing for being an ass, and for telling the drones about the dame, even for cheating at cards, but the excitement is brewing in Vinny's chest, and he practically skips back down the stairs knowing his pop is going to shit his pants with pride.

Of course, then he remembers why Mr. Valentine ran off and then breaks into a run after cursing aloud in a way that would make his pop swat him over the head. He reaches the door on the opposite end of the cafeteria balcony, but sees that the mechanics are smoking and there's a sharp whiff of burnt plastic in the air. The door itself looks like it jerked itself closed with only two or three inches to spare.

Shit, looks like he's going through the dorms.

Skirting back around, he breaks into a run and heads down into the cafeteria through the other doorway, nearly tripping on the stairs and bumping into a table on his way through, but he's in too much of a hurry to care. He's got a bad feeling about what Mr. Valentine heard that made him turn on heel and sprint like that, and he hopes it's got nothing to do with that blonde lady.

He reaches the dorms, ready to excuse himself through a few johns on his way out but there's not a single person in sight, not even as he winds his way through the halls and rooms. They're all missing, and suddenly a feeling of dread passes through him, his pop was fuming when they brought in the dame, he said it was the last straw; they needed to take the drones out now, and now he's afraid that this is the pre-emptive, that he's going to hear the gunfire and screaming at any moment because shits gotten serious now.

Vinny makes it through the rest of the dorms in less than a minute, rushing through towards the Vault lobby to see one of his boy's standing guard next to the door normally opened up to the room leading out to the hall with all the goods. Ricardo "The Kid" spots him coming up and looks relieved beyond words to see him, but it's short lived as he urges him close to speak in confidence.

"We got a real problem, V," His low voice is shaking like he's afraid, all the color in his face has been ghosted off like he was hit with a can of white paint, "Malone's dead."

Vinny stares at him, bewildered, "What do you mean he's dead? What the fuck _happened?_ "

"It's the Boss, the one your pop was tellin' us about, he's back, V, and he shot Malone point blank in front of us, didn't even listen to his fucking rant, just pulled the gun out and blew his brains out," Ricardo reaches down and lifts the lapel of his grey suit, showing off the blood splatter staining the material, "Oh god, and Darla... she tried to hit 'em with that bat of hers and he-he just broke it over his knee like it was made of glass, and he hurt her real bad. Our boys are in there, w-we gotta do something."

Vinny closes his eyes for a moment; trembling at the visual his Pop had painted about the Boss. He described him like a stunted Yao Guai on two legs, huge and powerful, but not stupid like Dino, he said his eyes bore into you like he can see right through all the jargon, bullshit, and lies. But he's not like an unhinged animal, he's a true old world mobster, like in the comics, he's a leader, and a fair dealer. If Vinny can show him that he and his boys are worth having around..."Who's all in there with 'em?"

"Everyone, Malone called all of us to face 'em, Lonnie, Isaac, Santora, Pete..." Ricardo grabs Vinny's arm in desperation, "They're all in there with the drones, we gotta get 'em out before they get tossed in with the rest of those assholes."

Vinny shakes his head, looking at Ricardo with the resolve that he knows what they need to do, "We can't take off, not now. It's all or nothing now, Kid, and if we wanna prove ourselves to the Triggermen, and to the head honcho himself, we gotta stick with the plan."

"Our plan is _suicide_!" Ricardo insists, "If we make the wrong move, they'll _kill_ all of us!"

"And if we make the right one, they'll welcome us with open arms," Vinny reaches out and grabs the back of Ricardo's neck, shaking him a little to get his point across, "A _family_ , Kid, a _home_. And these guys ain't like traders or settlers, they take care of their own, they're loyal and fair. We won't have to worry about being tossed out, because family takes care of family, we all take care of each other. You're my brother, and soon you'll be theirs too. Don't you want that?"

Ricardo stares back at him, visibly trying to contain his emotions, and nods, "I want that more than anything, we all do..."

"Then we're gonna fight for it," Vinny grins, "You with me?"

Reassured, and suddenly brimming with determination, Ricardo cocks the chamber of his SMG, "I'm with you, V, let's light 'em up."

"Any of you seen Tony?"

The moment he mentions his name, Carolyn can feel Tony tense up, his grip on her arm tightens, and it's then that she realizes that this man, this giant is the nameless reason they're all so uneasy, why they're so desperate to take care of whatever's amok in this Vault, why they needed to do it before he came back. This must be their boss, their real boss, not the one these younger men followed, but the one that they're terrified of, and for a reason she can't quite place... she feels like she knows him.

It's impossible, but this man holds a firm resemblance to the head of the family she used to work for, even his attitude and stature are similar. There's no way that this man can be the real Giovanni DiAngelo, not from the same time as her, there couldn't have been the cryo-chambers in his vault like the one she crawled out of, he wouldn't have done anything that dangerous, not to risk his family. Giovanni's family was everything to him, everything he did was to protect them... he wouldn't. Not even in desperation.

Suddenly Tony gently lets her go, she looks up at him, concerned, but he only gives her a light reassuring nod that echoes the smile accompanying it in the dark. It doesn't comfort her. In fact, she turns to look at the rest of the Triggermen who don't seem to be following after; in fact, they all have an air of remorse, helpless scowls cross their faces before they duck their heads without any argument.

Its wordless acceptance that he intends to put himself at risk foremost before any of them, including a woman he barely knows.

Tony straightens himself out, brushing dust from his shirt before he takes a steadying breath and walks out to face the giant, and when he speaks, he doesn't try to hide the defeat in his voice, it's difficult to hear knowing what he's about to jeopardize, "It's all on me, Boss."

The giant turns to look at Tony as he seems to appear from the dark, surprised to see him, but studying in consideration as he takes a step away from the crowd and halfway circles the other man to put his back towards the entrance, "When you say it's all you, I hope you mean that you're not the one who threw Malone on a pedestal and gave him authority he didn't earn, or _deserve_."

Tony ducks his head, "No, it ain't like that, Malone pulled the wool over my eyes. My own guys were tellin' me he was up to something but I didn't listen. It ain't anyone else's fault but mine, I didn't see what he was planning and by then it was too late to do anything, we were outnumbered."

Carolyn glances back to see the older Triggermen at her back open their mouths, desperately wanting to protest but knowing better not to interfere. A few of them even take their hats off when they realize, like her, that their leader is taking the blame for the whole operation, sparing them from whatever wrath their Boss wants to ensue.

Not like the group of young men, however, a single solitary voice pipes up in his total outrage as he elbows his way through the others, " _ **That's bullshit!**_ "

The Boss turns with a high and curious brow to watch as the young men fearfully part to let the kid through, eager not to be involved, and allowing him to shakily stand his ground almost toe to toe with the giant, Carolyn feels her anxiety skyrocket when she realizes it's Tony's son.

His face is drained of colour, obviously terrified, but not unwilling to stand his ground as he points to the rotund dead body behind him, "It's this asshole Malone's fault, sir. He's the one who wanted to take over, he's the one who got us to raid up all these settlements, told us to do all kinds of crazy shit to prove that we're worth being called a Triggerman, some of us killed those poor bastards for trying to fight back, and the damned raiders kept coming around, it ain't Tony's fault, Malone had 'em outnumbered, we _had_ to give those bastards Corvega!"

" _ **Vinny!**_ " Tony snaps, as if he'd been ready to burst the moment his son spoke up, the young man swivels his head over to his father, eyes wide, but his expression is rebellious.

"Who's gonna tell 'em, Pop?!" Vinny snaps, "Ain't nobody gonna tell 'em about all the shit we went through?"

At that very moment Carolyn is expecting the Giovanni look-a-like to strike him down, but he's only watching Vinny with a thoughtful and interested expression hidden within the glower, intent on listening to this young boy as he continues.

"What about all the guys he had killed, about all that talk about betraying the Boss, what about the detective, Pop?" Vinny urges, "What about _the dame?_ "

" _Vinny_ ," Tony's voice is on the edge of a desperate plea, but he stops when the Boss holds up a hand, his thick brow furrowed with confusion as he addresses the young man.

"Slow down, kid," He orders firmly, "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Vinny is shaking, rambling, "Look, sir, my pop didn't have nothing to do with it. Me and my boy's were tryin' to help him, we decided enough was enough, we weren't gonna follow Malone no more. Not after all the shit he pulled, we had a plan, y'know? After they got the dame out, we were gonna turn on the lot of 'em and take 'em all out before they knew what color their shit would be."

The group of young men suddenly shuffle with disordinance, some very shocked, and others immediately afraid or angry, and then one shouts out from the crowd, older, but not by much, "Vinny, what the hell man, you were gonna wack us?!"

"You jack-offs wanted to follow Malone so bad, you beat a farmer to death when he ain't done nothing wrong!" Vinny snaps back, "That ain't what the Triggermen are about, you ain't no better than the damn muties!"

"Fuck, Vin, seriously?!" Another shouts, "You rat, we were brothers!"

"None of _my_ brothers did half the shit you bozos did!"

The crowd begins to roar with outrage, and suddenly Vinny is nailed on the cheek by a fist sized piece of rubble that sends him staggering backwards, Tony lurches forward to grab him and that's when Carolyn hears a growl from behind her, and turns to watch one of the Triggermen spring up from where he sat, " _Oh hell no_."

The others can't stop him, and he ignores their hisses to get his ass back into cover, Carolyn plasters herself against the wall as two more leap up to follow after and she's unsure if they mean to stop or join him, but it prompts another to snap, "Hey, idiots! Shit!"

Suddenly the rest of the Triggermen swarm and a clamour of shouting erupts in the lobby that she can't see through the chaos of moving figures, she's immediately grabbed by a man in a light tan suit and black fedora, speaking to her calmly through the noise, "We gotta go."

"I can't," Carolyn pants, her panic making her scattershot, "I can't run anymore."

"We can't risk keepin' you here. I'll help you, come on," He pulls her arm over his shoulder and hoists her to her feet, but the pull and the angle tears something on her back and she cries out against the raw pain. Before she can protest, the man pulls her along and they turn back the way they came, deeper within the vault after being so close to the entrance.

"W-wait, where are we going?" Carolyn gasps, trying to keep up.

"Far enough away from the damn riot that we can figure out what to do with you next, wasn't planning on the Boss or a mob of angry johns bein' between us and the exit," He pants, encumbered by the extra weight, "Name's Frankie by the way."

As they turn the corner into the next adjacent room, wide with storage boxes leading directly to the stairs back towards the construction zone, the echoes of the riot are suddenly muted by an explosive barrage of firepower. Both Carolyn and Frankie instinctively fall to their knees as though the bullets were being fired directly over their heads, but only she lets out a yelp of surprise.

In moments it's quiet, eerily so, given the riot could be heard at their back and through to the next room. Frankie turns to look back from where they came, "Christ, what the hell was that?!"

Before either of them could get back to their feet, they hear someone coming up the stairs in front of them, from the direction of the construction zone.

"Hold up," Frankie helps her into cover behind one of the metal crates so he can draw his weapon, "Stay low. Don't make a sound."

Carolyn nods shakily, on her hands and knees with her eyes around the crate to watch as Frankie stands with his large rifle pointed to the bright and open frame of the doorway. It takes only seconds before the figure comes into view, and the moment he does she can see two glowing yellow eyes peering out through the shadows of his form and her relief is practically immediate.

Frankie's voice is cool and cautious as he speaks, his gun at eye level with the robotic man that helped her escape the overseers office, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it right there."

The man elicits a sigh, raising his hands, "Figures I'd run into you of all people."

"I should say the same," Frankie replies, "I thought they went and shot you down after you decided to play hero for our damsel in distress."

"Well, someone had to."

"Oh, go to hell, Valentine."

Carolyn blinks a little dumbly, _Valentine._..?

Her mind takes a moment to process, staring at the figure, the way he's standing, the expression in his face, his demeanour, his voice...The realization hits her and she suddenly gasps, pulling herself back behind cover and totally out of view as a surge of fear and anxiety shoots through her like a cold and unforgiving strike of lightening, worsening her exhausting panic and causing her to hyperventilate through her fingers in an attempt to mask the sounds of her haggard breathing.

There was something in the expression on his face back in the Overseers Office, the way he reacted when he heard her call him 'Val', but she'd quickly dismissed it, thinking fear and desperation had somehow twisted her perception to make him look and sound like the one person she needed the most, the one person that she could bare to think about to bring her comfort and courage. It's not possible... out of everyone in this world, there's no way that he could have made it through somehow, even being the person that he is, she must be going crazy, crazy with grief, with sorrow, with fear...

"How the hell did you get out of that office?" Frankie suddenly demands, breaking her from her own mind to tune back into the conversation.

"Guess you could say I had a man on the inside, decided to leave the door unlocked for me. Funny none of you thought to lend the same courtesy, given we're all on the same side and all," Valentine responds.

Frankie snorts, "None of us wanted to risk you going AWOL and stirring up the vault some more, safer to leave you in there while we got shit sorted out."

"Well from the sounds of it, you've mucked up all by yourselves," Valentine observes, "You running from the riot?"

"You make a habit of thinking so little of a guy tryin' to do the right thing?" Frankie's shoes grind on fractions of dirt under his feet as he turns and approaches where Carolyn is still hiding, "You high-horse dicks are all the same."

Carolyn jolts as Frankie comes into view and holds a hand out to her; she gently reaches up and takes it despite her hand being moist with the condensation of her hyperventilation. He doesn't seem to notice it as pulls her upright, and it's quickly out of her mind, a silly thing to be worried about, as she looks over and locks eyes with the mechanical man. The second he can see her and realizes who she is, his expression quickly turns from a smooth composure to surprise and Carolyn can't help feeling her heart jump into her throat, her own thoughts still so fresh in her mind.

Frankie supports her enough to let her take a seat on top of one of the crates, she moves almost totally mechanically, her body on auto-pilot as she quietly watches the man named for someone she knows has been dead for a very long time, despite her wishing desperately that it wasn't so.

Frankie motions to her, " _We're_ running from the riot."

Valentine very swiftly ignores Frankie, much to the gangster's immediate annoyance, and approaches Carolyn with a noticeable limp, kneeling down on a crate at her side, his yellow eyes glow quite bright in the dim atmosphere which makes them a little hard to look at.

He looks concerned, most likely due to the way in which he helped her escape, there was no real way him knowing if she'd made it to safety, "How you doin', you alright?"

Carolyn nods, she's still shaking, brimming with anxiety and panic as her arms wrap firmly around herself, she's sore, mostly from the pain in her back and her stomach is wound so tightly she may throw up, but his presence gives her a sense of comfort, even though she knows in her heart that it's false.

"These toughs didn't give you a hard time, did they?" He asks while smiling gently, "Can't imagine their manners are much practiced when it comes to dealing with a scared and injured woman."

Carolyn smiles back and ducks her head, only relieved that he didn't end up calling her a 'dame' like the rest of the men in this Vault, especially considering a lot of them probably don't know it's quite derogatory. At least she hopes that they weren't doing it to personally offend her.

Frankie glances down at him and scoffs, holstering his weapon, "Believe it or not, we were on our way to get her out of here before shit hit the fan. Besides, we didn't have nothin' to do with why she got nabbed in the first place."

"Still begs the question as to why," Valentine halfway glances back up at Frankie.

Frankie sighs but it sounds more like an exasperated growl, "It was a stupid fuckin' stunt pulled by these disrespectful punks tryin' to be gangsters and impress their boss, fuckin' morons just signed their own death warrants is what they did, no way the Boss is gonna let 'em off the hook for this, let alone everything else they went and fucked up while they were high on their own fumes."

Carolyn feels her chest grow tight as he speaks, trying to understand, does this mean all of her suffering until this point was because of a group of men trying to impress their boss? ...it's because they wanted to be _gangsters_? All of her suffering was because of them? Because they didn't know better? Or was it all because they didn't care if someone else got hurt because of them...?

Suddenly she feels sick again, sick with grief and anger, and suddenly so tired. Her jaw sets, new tears brimming in her eyes as an angry thought begins to manifest, if this were pre-war Boston... they all would have learned long before anything bad had happened that they're not the gangsters they want to be, they're not even close, the real gangsters would have taken them out for being so careless. Giovanni would have taken them out himself... but this isn't pre-war Boston anymore, is it? Men like them can run around doing whatever they want and it takes men like Tony, like Frankie, and Valentine to risk their lives in order to set things right. How is any of that okay?

"Ah... shit," Frankie suddenly clears his throat, noticing the tears on Carolyn's face, "Look, Miss, I didn't mean..."

"Like I said," Valentine interrupts, "You lot have no clue."

Carolyn glances up to see Valentine holding out his hand to Frankie, flickering his fingers with insistence and the man sighs with a heave, begrudgingly taking the handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it over. Valentine then turns to Carolyn and offers it to her, its light brown to contrast against Frankie's suit, and it looks a lot like the color of her old quilt that she had only recently taken out of storage to combat the coming winter months. It makes her heart ache, but she accepts it nevertheless and uses it to wipe the loose tears from her cheeks, sniffling and winding it around her fingers as she spots the grime that had come off of her face, oh god she must be so filthy.

After giving her a moment, Valentine then asks her, "Do you remember what happened before you woke up here?"

She gently clears her throat, "Vinny mentioned the raiders at Corvega, they were the ones that took me, I managed to get out, but I didn't get far, I... don't remember anything after that."

"Sounds about right," Valentine sighs, "Pay a bunch of low-life's to do a random kidnapping so this lot doesn't have to get their hands dirty."

Frankie growls, "They didn't just pay 'em, the idiots gave 'em Corvega. It was one of our main bases of operation. Scrap and salvage. Real valuable source of income, but the raiders had no idea what to do with all of it, because all they care about is chems, so they started looting like all the rest. Then we lost one of our main income sources and Malone resolved in fucking stealing it from settlements and caravans. The Boss did right to blow the assholes brains out, but now we're all fucked too because we let it happen and the Boss ain't gonna let us off easy."

Frankie then points to Carolyn, "And with you still in here, it'll be a double ass kickin', stealing and looting are one thing, but kidnapping? Especially kidnapping a woman like she was some kind of prize? God help us."

"So, you weren't actually trying to help her?" Valentine inquires venomously, "You lot were just trying to save your own asses from a worse punishment, is that right?"

"Fuck off; of course we were tryin' to help her," Frankie snaps, "Look, she didn't have nothin' to do with what Malone pulled, the Boss knows that, so he won't hurt her, you don't have to fuckin' worry about it. We'll lay low, wait for him to settle this fuckin' coup that's it. You'll both get off scot free, and we won't be your fuckin' problem anymore."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment," Valentine remarks, "but are you willing to bet on the odds your people manage to take back control? Because there's only one way out of this hole, and that's through the front door, between that, is a mob that may or may not be friendly when we decide to make a break for it."

Frankie scoffs, "Malone's breathing through a new hole in his head, there's no one left but his Drones, and they can't remember to wipe their asses without someone tellin' 'em to. The Boss can take care of it."

Valentine suddenly frowns, "Hold up, Malone's _dead_?" He asks, "What about his girl, Darla?"

"She's fine, but the Boss shattered her leg like an old piece of wood," Frankie grins, "She ain't going no-where. You can pick her up on your way out if you still feel like bringin' her back to her folks after she beat your ass in like an old trash bin."

Carolyn braces herself against the clear and very recent memory of watching the giant break the woman's leg like it was nothing, hearing the sound of the bone shattering, and the shape it left when he took his boot away. She has to look away from Frankie as he's apparently very pleased that it happened and her eyes stop at Valentine's lap, where one of his hands sit balled into a tightly wound fist.

"This the same Boss you're so sure isn't going to treat our kidnapee the same way?" Valentine sounds nonchalant despite his rigid form.

"He only did that because she came at him with her bat after he shot Malone," Frankie shrugs, the notion making perfect sense to him, "Besides, she ain't even dead."

Valentine almost growls, "You think that just because she survived-"

"No, he's right."

Both men look directly at Carolyn as she suddenly interrupts to agree with what Frankie had said, she feels like her head is buzzing because it suddenly makes so much sense to her, "He needed to take back control, he needed... to show them that he's the one in charge, and he only hurt the woman when she attacked him. I don't think he can be considered as thoroughly kind, but... he clearly has morals. I don't think that he's not going to hurt me or you, we're just victims, and he'll know that."

Valentine studies her for a moment in consideration, a much different look that the gentle one he offered only moments ago. It's like he's searching for something in her face that lets on to a bigger picture, "You sound awful sure about that."

"I know his type," She states, suddenly feeling a little small under his intense gaze, but she doesn't look away, she has nothing to hide if that's what he's looking for.

It ends up being a solid few moments of tense eye contact which is only interrupted by Frankie nudging Valentine on the shoulder to breaking the gaze, she's not totally sure if it was on purpose or not, because he doesn't make a deal out of mentioning it. Though she feels a little embarrassed and curious of the metal mans fixation on what she said.

"You heard the lady, Valentine," Frankie says, "looks like we're stayin' put, you in or not?"

"Course I am," Valentine pulls his arm away, "Not much of a choice, is there?"

It's all gone to hell.

The plan had been less than solid, sure, it was forged mostly out of hope or trust in the prospect of some kind of faith, but part of Tony figured that he'd invested a lot in the idea of divine intervention, especially considering some of the shit he's seen while working under Hank.

Well, it all fell right out of his hopeful ass the second he saw Hank take out Malone, the only thing he could do, the only thing he could think of to do was to own it. Own it, save his men, and hope to God that his Boss could see through all the bullshit because that man knows more than he's ever let on and he trusts him with his life because of that simple fact.

But Vinny... he wasn't supposed to intervene. He wasn't supposed to own up to everything, and Tony never planned on it until he could get Hank alone to properly explain what had happened and why. He had yet to even bring up the detective, Miss. Carolyn, or Corvega, there was too much going on for that, he didn't want to overwhelm the Boss with too much information, but Vinny couldn't seem to stop talking, as much as Tony urged him to stop.

Suddenly everyone was swarming, one idiot hit Vinny with a rock, and all his Triggermen started to flood out to join the feud. Darla, even in her panicked and injured state, knew to drag herself out of the way and around a stack of crates. At his side, Hank backed up in sync to gain distance, even someone as strong as him knew better than to throw himself in the middle of it, he'd wait for it to die down before even trying to intervene. The riot soon turned violent and unhinged in moments and all Tony could think of to do was get Vinny out of there.

The boy is lighter than his suit makes him look, and with Tony's strength, he hauls him right out of the crowd before any of the others could get a hit, but his voice suddenly rings out like he had no idea he was being dragged right out of the fight, or that the gash on his cheek was bleeding down to the collar around his neck.

" _ **NOW!**_ " He barks, " _ **LIGHT 'EM UP, BOYS!**_ "

Within the clamouring crowd, a sudden sporadic barrage of gunfire erupts followed by indistinct shouts and cries of pain, it sounds like it's coming from everywhere. Bodies start immediately hitting the floor everyone else scrambling to try and find cover, but after the final few shots the room goes totally silent. Men stand back against the walls and around bits of cover, less than half of the original riot are left standing and as Tony searches their faces, he realises they're all his Triggermen. All, that is, except five young men standing in the middle of a pile of a dozen bodies, but he recognizes them too because they're all Vinny's Boys.

His best friend, Ricardo "The Kid" is leading the rest with his SMG, followed by Lonnie, "Two Shot" Isaac, Pete, and "Side-Eye" Santora. These are the kids Tony had made responsible for light recon and Drone infiltration as they had switched sides with Vinny when the dispute between the Drone's and Triggermen really hit its peak. These kids, like Vinny, were orphans that grew up in the streets as scavvers when Malone found them and brought them in for more cannon fodder, even though they're all less than twenty. These kids just gunned down the entire crowd of Drone's in the middle of a riot, sparing the Triggermen and ending the feud _by themselves_. Tony has no words, not even as Vinny pulls himself from the grip on him that went lax moments ago. His kid, the one he'd promised to look after not matter what, turns to look at him with a bright grin across his face.

"Don't worry about it, Pop," He assures him, "I promised I'd take care of it, remember?"


	15. A Bad Feeling

Don blinks away the water droplets that fall into his eyes, trying to keep his vision clear as he slowly makes his way through the threshold of the ticket gate into Boston's Illustrious Baseball Diamond, it's near pitch black and the only source of light coming through is from the end of the tunnel, the familiar artificial red glow of civilization. He pushes hair from his brow, trying to mop the water up with his hand, the worst of the storm is over, but a light drizzle

still remains from its earlier near-hurricane conditions. So, he's soaked to the bone, his jacket and Vault-Suit are clinging uncomfortably to his figure and sapping all the warmth from his skin, and despite the fever and physical strain, he's freezing.

The wound in his chest is starting to feel like a solid mass, the muscle is hard and swollen as opposed to being a series of sharp pains, which isn't exactly better, but it means that he probably won't puncture a lung with a rib if he moves around too much. It started hurting again almost as soon as the front gate was in view and has steadily gotten worse in the past twenty minutes, especially since he almost had to risk his life for some angry woman he'd just met, who of course didn't appear grateful in the least. All she did was accuse him of wanting to steal her ammo, what a thankless job he has.

As he makes it through to the other side, walking back out into the rain, he stops dead at the peak of a large set of stairs that lead down through the aisle seats and into the field. For a moment he considers the fever is making him hallucinate, because he's not too sure if what he's seeing is the result of two hundred years of nuclear fallout survival tactics, or his mentally altered state. What used to be the Diamond's field full of green artificial grass is now packed with a makeshift shanty town.

It takes him a moment to really process what he's looking at because two hundred years prior, people gathered in this arena to buy overpriced confectionaries and cheer on their favourite team, not just people from before all of this, but him as well. He'd entered this arena two hundred years ago with friends and family, at points with Carolyn and Nora, he's sat in this very stadium to cheer on his local team.

Don looks up to the metal archway, the overhead diamond is still sitting proud, but is now wrapped in dead plant roots, discoloured and rusted by the combination of time and the strange elements. Off to the distance, the expanse of walls sits in a similar state, the polished green metal no longer distinguishable in its disrepair as it surrounds the provisional settlement.

The town itself looks like it had been pieced together bit by bit over time, like it had been built from the destruction and debris of the initial blast. Using the metal plating torn from other buildings and from the very walls, they constructed buildings and homes, decorating them with old world findings. Mannequins sit outside doors, hanging lights are suspended over walkways, and glowing neon signage welded and wired from other bits of scavenged metal sits atop roofs to advertise a marketplace surrounding a huge chimney stock. The plume of smoke is glowing pink from the light pollution and mixing with the dark storm clouds still swirling overhead as it signals the town's center. The base is wrapped in a circle of red awnings and bar tables, while the peak is wrapped by a gnarled tree and causing smoke to pour skyward out of several smaller puncture points along the length. Despite the smoulder coating its branches as it leaks, the foliage and moss still wraps the trunk and its leaves rattle in the light breeze as though it didn't affect the growth whatsoever.

Like the road he travelled before the weather obscured his view, and much like Sanctuary, the plant life grows without restriction and seemingly without hindrance from the radiation still very present in the local water supplies.

Don finds himself astonished and overwhelmed by the presence of survival tactics and ingenuity in a world that seemed to be at its end. The people he can see wandering through the market, although scant considering the time of night, appear relatively normal, instead of the crazy-violent-meets-lawless-society folks he had the misfortune of dealing with earlier this same day. Sure, they look a little worse for wear, one or two in tatters for clothes, dirty, caked with mud and grime, but others are dressed more casually, some even armoured. No one is killing each other, kicking the shit out of each other, and no one appears to be armed.

They're all just... people.

All things considered, Don wasn't too sure there would be people left, not like this, in this quantity, because the last time he saw this many in one place, they were all trying to kill him. It's the first time since waking up that he's actually witnessing some semblance of normalcy instead of something nightmarish and horrific.

He realizes that these people must be comfortable here, they must feel safe, they're running a market and are no longer thinking about basic survival, these people are attempting to make a livelihood, they aren't living in fear of the outside.

It's a realization that makes a long claw of icy fear pierce his suit and drag up the length of his spine.

Something switches in his mind, something primal and intuitive, a terror he can't put words to, and he feels the sudden unconscious urge to pull his vision away from the town and up to his left.

The wall of the stadium sits tall, the framework solid, but the plating is peeling back on the ends, plant life is seeping in from the outside. He glances up towards one of the field lights as it beams down onto the settlement, swallowing the surrounding darkness and casting heavier light pollution on the storm clouds.

It sits angled in such a way that the glare doesn't hurt his eyes, and thanks to that, he spots a distinct mass of gruesome blood coloured vines as they sit wrapped around the base of the stand. They're the same ones he saw in Sanctuary, and just outside, tangled around the old baseball player statue, they seemed to be drawing the moisture from the rock and causing it to crumble. These vines however appear to stop just shy of climbing the wall, not trying to grow into the stadium despite their reach.

Don turns back to the market square; there isn't any growing here that he can see. Either it can't make it past the walls or it doesn't seem to want to grow here.

Why?

It was Mama Murphy, something he'd heard her say as he was escorting Preston and his group to Sanctuary from Concord. He had been keeping an eye on their six, making sure nothing would try to come up from behind, and she was lingering back from the rest of the group, walking slower.

He figured she was tired, old people get tired.

It wasn't until there was a reasonable distance between the two of them and the rest of the group, that she'd said it aloud and didn't seem to be addressing anyone in particular.

' _Sorry?'_ He'd asked her, feeling at that moment taken aback.

She'd just turned, looked at him with a wide smile, and then shook her head like she just idly commented on the state of the weather ahead, _'Ah, don't listen to me, kid. I'm just rambling.'_

It was how she said it that really shook him; her voice was low like a disembodied murmur, her tone was almost disdainful, thick with contempt.

 _There's a big difference between the people who see a light in the darkness as hope, and the people who see it as a threat. One is going to live a hell of a lot longer than the rest._

Whatever had taken hold her of her in that moment, it certainly made him listen, especially when she spoke about her 'vision' of Carolyn, telling him the cryptic message that brought him here in the first place, and... maybe that was her intention all along.

Great, now his inner voice is a crazy old fortune teller... one that gives him the impression that nothing is how it seems, because this 'Diamond City' looks hopeful, it looks like a beacon of safety, it literally would glow from a reasonable distance, and that's what makes him so nervous. It's off somehow, wrong, and he can't put his finger on it, but his blood pressure skyrockets and his gut instinct is telling him to turn and haul ass back the same way he came.

Don takes a single step back, but the moment he moves, a heavy hand slaps down on his shoulder and it takes every ounce of his self control not to jump out of his damn skin and scream like an underpaid movie actress.

"Excuse me, young man," A pudgy man in his late forties, early fifties, steps around from behind Don to face him with a smile halfway hidden behind a full moustache, it narrows his eyes to accentuate deep crow's feet, and his cheeks glow warmly against the rainfall, "I heard about all the ruckus that happened during the power outage, I wasn't aware any of our citizens had been left trapped outside in this ungodly storm."

Don is immediately unnerved by this man's proximity, his timing, and his hand wrapped firmly around his shoulder, but he knows better than to let it show, so he forces a pleasant smile in return and shrugs lightly, "Eh, Piper just got lucky, I was already out for a walk."

The man laughs; it sounds airy and forced, "By the sounds of it, you got there just in time. I came down to see how the gate fared due to the outage and was surprised when I ran into Piper. Apparently she was out when the storm hit, and as an unfortunate result, was locked out as well. Of course that made her understandably upset. She told me that _you_ helped her survive a group of raging ferals! I can't imagine... that must have been a horrifying experience."

Don glances up to the sky, forcing his nonchalance with the mock-intensity of a grizzled mercenary, "Ferals follow the storms. You can't avoid 'em for long, not even outside the ruins."

"Of course, and accidents can always happen," The man then somehow tightens his grip enough to make Don shrink an inch on his own feet, trying to take him down a notch, but Don doesn't give, so instead the man offers his hand for the following pleasantries, "I couldn't help but see you admiring the view. You must be from out of town. Allow me to introduce myself; I'm the Mayor of this fine city, David McDonough, a pleasure to meet you."

Don shakes his hand, firmly, recalling with sudden amusement what Piper had claimed about this man just outside the gate. So this is the infamous McDonough, conjurer of storms, "How could I not? I've never seen anything like it! It's very impressive, Mayor."

McDonough returns the grip with the same tenacity, "Well then, let me be the first to welcome you with open arms, you helped a citizen in need, and that makes you a hero in my books."

"I did what any man would do," Don nods, "But, I appreciate the sentiment, Mayor McDonough."

The Mayor laughs heartily, which would sound pleasing enough to anyone close by, but to Don it sounds more like he was trying to hide the fact that he was furious, good god, did this guy actually try to kill Piper?

"My good sir, you sound like Diamond City material. Why don't you make yourself at home, get some rest? The market opens in the morning, so you'll have full access to all of the amenities we offer."

"That sounds like a hell of a plan, I could use a warm bed," Don loosens his grip on McDonough's hand, his fingers are starting to go numb, but the Mayor doesn't let go, in fact, he pulls him close and leans in to speak lowly.

"Listen son, if you have any questions, any concerns at all, please stop by my office in the stands, I'm always available," He assures him in a tone completely different from the one he projected only moments ago, his earlier tactic failing, he's apparently resorting to social confidence rather than intimidation, "No matter how outlandish the issue may sound, I assure you I will take it to heart without judgement."

Don can smell soap on him, and some kind of manufactured cologne that's too much like an alcoholic conglomeration of flowers and fruit. Obviously handmade, because the smell of rot is on the last notes that he can barely catch with every inhale. Somehow, after only knowing Mayor McDonough for a handful of minutes, he finds it suits him really well.

So Don smiles, makes direct eye contact, and gives him what he wants.

"Actually sir," His voice lowers like he's afraid of being overheard, he even pretends to glance nervously over his shoulder, "I was a little concerned about Piper's attitude... she seemed to think that being locked out was _your_ fault..."

McDonough sighs and pats him hard on the back, trying to hide the fact that he seems quite pleased with himself, "Ah yes, Piper can be very... opinionated. But don't you worry; she needs to stir up trouble in order to keep that newspaper of hers up and running."

"That makes sense, but what if she doesn't stop stirring up trouble?" Don asks, feigning a sudden timid tone, "Won't that be a problem?"

McDonough nods thoughtfully, "People will sort it out for themselves; they'll know who's really telling the truth in the end."

"I don't know. People stop listening to the truth when they're scared, I mean... what if people start believing her?" He inquires, "What if she gets help from the right people? What if these people help her stir trouble and suddenly you have more and more folks asking questions? What if you can't answer all these questions? What will happen if they don't think you're telling the truth anymore?"

The look on McDonough's face stretches as Don speaks, assurance turns into confusion, and then widens into apprehension, fear. The taller man straightens back up, practically poising like a dominate predator as he continues.

"What are you going to do when you're the only person left who isn't telling the truth?" He lowers his voice an octave more, "What are you going to do then, David?"

After a long beat of tense silence, in which McDonough opens his mouth to try and piece words together in a sputter of syllables under Don's sudden intense gaze, his grip suddenly goes slack.

"Ah, I'm sure you'll figure it out! You're the Mayor after all, nothing happens around here without your say-so," It's Don's turn to pat the Mayor hard on the back now that his hand is free, which earns him a startled cough and a lopsided fedora; "It was nice to meet you, sir! I'll be sure to let you know of any rapscallions around here that need a-wranglin'!"

Even though Don was originally going to turn around and leave, he decides, if just for the sake of power-play, to descend the staircase. Even though is gut feeling is screaming at him not to, _for god's sake, just leave, you don't want to be in here_ , Don shrugs it off. There has to be a reason that Dogmeat led him here, he just needs to figure out it. So, he makes a bee-line for the center of town, towards the huge smoke stock with the inertia of his victory.

He finds the anxiety and adrenaline begins to pool, he realizes he's marching like he's on a mission, he's actively trying to fight the impulse to check his surroundings, to study every corner of the market, to linger on the darker corners in case something was hidden from view. He wants to walk the perimeter, to internally map out where he is, and log all possible escape routes. He wants to profile everyone, to memorize all the darkened faces he passes, he wants to know names, he wants a clear vantage, he wants to get moving, he wants his _goddamn battle scarred brain to shut up for a minute and let him think._

" _May I take your order?_ "

Don is startled out of his own thoughts, realizing that he'd blacked out a little and stopped walking at some point, and is now standing in front of one of the bars surrounding the smoke stock. The awnings over his head stop the rain, but it doesn't do him much good considering he's already soaking wet. The heat of the stock, however, is a relief; he can feel his skin prickle with Goosebumps at the temperature shift.

He's also standing almost eye to eye with a protectron wearing a chef's hat, and it takes him a moment to process that it just spoke to him in _Japanese?_

" _May I take your order?_ " The protectron asks again, immediately confirming that it actually is, somehow, speaking a foreign language two hundred years after the apocalypse.

Don steps back out into the rain and glances up to the glowing sign sitting on the awnings that reads 'Power Noodles'. He'd seen it from atop the stairs, but couldn't really discern what it was from that distance, it looked like an outdoor bar for the people in the market, but it's more like a diner.

A culturally insensitive diner...

Don puts his hands on his hips as the protectron continues idly stirring a large metal pot, seemingly unperturbed by Don's lack of response, "Oh, that's fucked up." He murmurs.

" _May I take your order?_ "

The familiar scent of boiling pasta reaches him with a sudden updraft from the rain and Don feels his stomach curl and twist with the realization that he hasn't eaten in quite some time. He doesn't know what qualifies as food in the apocalypse, but to him, whatever this bot is cooking smells better than anything he could immediately think of.

Don lets out a sigh, despite the invisible dangers this place is leaking, on top of the mild racism, the marketing strategy is too good to ignore.

" _Hey, what's up_!" He responds with a wide and polite smile, slipping back into his native language as he sits on one of the bar stools, " _What do you have? Noodles? I'll take one. How much?_ "

"There you are!"

Don flinches, expecting the bot to respond, but instead a familiar and slightly unwelcome voice calls out from behind him, he looks over his shoulder to see Piper lightly jogging into the town center with Dogmeat pattering happily at her side. He thought he managed to slip by her in the confusion of the gate opening, in the rush of guards, and in her yelling at some poor bastard named 'Danny' about locking her out in the first place. Don had tried to get Dogmeat to follow him, but the pooch seemed perfectly content to stick by her for whatever reason.

"Jeez, I was wondering where the hell you went," She pulls her dark locks from her flushed cheeks like the rain didn't bother her in the slightest, and adjusts her cap to sit snugly around her forehead.

The bot turns slightly to face her, " _May I take your order?_ "

Piper puts her hand up, "Not now, Takahashi."

Don takes a moment to absorb the fact that the bot also has a Japanese surname, "Yeah, I had the munchies, happens when you forget to eat for twenty four hours."

"Well, I hope you're not expecting fine dining," Piper sighs, and then turns to the bot, "No offense, Takahashi."

" _May I take your order?_ "

Don has a feeling that that's all the bot can actually say, and he's not too sure if he feels better about it or not.

"You left before I had a chance to talk to you," Piper folds her arms, stepping under the awning and closer to the heat source, "I know we got off on the wrong foot, several actually, I yelled, you joked, I slapped you."

"Yeah," Don nods, he can still feel the ghost imprint of the sting. To his credit though, it was a damn fine response to a damn good pun, "I remember."

"Whatever, that's not important," She waves her hand dismissively; "You said your friend was kidnapped by raiders."

"Did I?" Don narrows his eyes at her, "I think I would've remembered something like that."

"Yeah, after strong arming me for my ammo," She points out crassly, "After knocking me to the floor, remember?"

"I don't remember strong arming, but I _do_ remember selflessly risking my ass to help a stranger in need," He props his head on his hand thoughtfully.

"If you'd call hitting the ground when the turrets came online 'saving'..."

"Pfft! _Semantics_ ," Don rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Look, I know someone in Diamond City whose job it is to find missing people. He's an old friend of mine who runs a detective agency near the market, and I honestly believe he's one of the best johns in the whole damn Commonwealth for the job. He's the real deal, helped more people since he's started than most people have in their entire lives. If you need a partner, he's your guy."

Don stares at her idly for a moment, "I don't know if I take much stock in a detective that lives in a most likely haunted shanty town, probably a huge scam. Takes your caps and tells you your loved one is dead, grabs a random body part he keeps in the back like 'oh, Mrs. Frankson, this is all I could find of your husband, that'll be 200 bucks.'."

"What's your plan then, huh?" She snaps, "Scour every inch of the Commonwealth? Check every raider camp from here to Quincy? How long is that going to take, days, weeks, _months_? Your friend doesn't have that kind of time."

Don leans back and sets his elbow on the bar table, studying her intensity, "Why are you so invested in helping me?"

Piper sighs with a low growl, glancing over her shoulder and then to the people sitting several seats away from Don. Her face suddenly softens into sombre emotion, and when she speaks, her voice is surprisingly low.

"People go missing here all the time," She murmurs, "Something about this town isn't right, but something about the entire damned Commonwealth isn't right either. I've noticed, and I've been trying to get other people to notice, but no one wants to see the truth. I'm getting real sick of having to write _another_ article about someone going missing, _another_ article about no one doing a damned thing about it, and _another damned article_ about people who are so scared that they just accept it. I want to make a difference, I want people to try, so I'm asking you, please... _please_ go talk to Nick, what do you have to lose?"

Don considers it for a moment, he knows he should trust his gut, it's what saved him more times than he can count, his gut made it so he could survive his time in the force, it brought him home, and it got him this far. To suddenly betray it like this goes against all of his survival instincts, but... shit, this could be the very reason that Dogmeat brought him here in the first place. Besides, he doesn't have much of an option at this point. Whoever this guy is, whether or not he can actually help him find Carolyn, he's another set of eyes, another set of instincts, and two are better than one.

"And another thing," Piper nods at Dogmeat as he sits obediently by her side, "You said you're following this pooch, I'll bet that he'll lead you right to the front door of the agency, as Nicky himself says, _I'd bet my hat_."

Don looks down at Dogmeat and considers what Mama Murphy said about him, there's a reason he brought him here instead of following the trail of those Raiders that took Carolyn. He has no idea what it is, but he has to believe it means something, there has to be some kind of divine intervention that still exists, and maybe the karmatic system would fuck him over for the shit he's done in the past, but Carolyn... she's done nothing wrong, she's kind, she's generous, and she's already been through so much.

What's more, according to the old fortune teller, assuming everything else she said was right up until now, Carolyn's son, Shaun, is out here too somewhere. She has to know that there might be a chance to bring him home.

 _One is going to live a hell of a lot longer than the rest..._

"Fine," Don points at her, "But just so we're clear, if he leads me anywhere else, I _will_ take your hat."

Piper smirks, "Tell you what, if he doesn't bring you straight to the agency, I'll give it to you myself."

Two metal desks sit in separate corners of an inward office space, large dented metal filing cabinets line the corner walls, and a well used chair sits in front of the desk in the immediate path of the door. Everything is stacked and piled high with what could only be described as a tornado of paperwork, files and a plenitude of scattered coffee mugs. On the main desk, a small area is cleared out and covered with photo's, accompanied by a short half empty stained glass of caramel coloured liquid, and an open bottle of bourbon.

Sitting in the chair, head resting on her hand as she fingers one of the photographs, is a pretty young woman with neatly pinned brunette waves. She glanced up the moment Piper opened the door without as much as a knock. Don followed close behind, eager to get inside, and stopped short at the look on the young woman's face. She looks entirely despondent, her eyes and cheeks red and swollen from a recent cascade of tears.

"Whoa," Piper immediately hesitates, "Ellie?"

Don finds himself suppress a hard and exasperated sigh, because _of course_ this wasn't about to go smoothly. He had hoped that at least after Piper gave him a hope speech, things would have lined up nicely, like an action movie, but this is like real life or something.

Piper takes the seat across from her, which is most likely for clients, and gently touches her shoulder, "What's going on, is everything okay?"

The woman shakes her head, her voice heavy and broken with emotion, "I really don't know."

"What happened?" Piper demands, but her voice is gentle, "Is it Nick, is he okay?"

The woman sniffles, and sets down the photo in her hands to rub her eyes, "I... I don't know... he's missing."

"Nicky's _missing_?" Piper leans back, "Oh great, what's he gotten himself into this time?"

The woman smiles a little at Piper and then goes sombre again as she looks into her glass, "It was just another case, but this one had bad news written all over it, and I told him... God, I told him and he knew, but he left anyways," Her expression arches into a fresh wave of tears and she shakes her head, "I told the guards, but they didn't want to help. People keep asking for him, I take down their information, but there's nothing I can do for them, there's nothing I can do for him either and... God, I keep thinking what if that was the last time I was ever going see him-"

"Hey, hey," Piper reaches over to take the glass from her reach and takes one of her hands instead, "Come on, El, you know Nick... He can handle himself. He's a tough guy, he always comes back. He's probably taking the scenic route. You know how much he loves the rain."

Ellie seems to perk up a bit, nodding with a half hearted chuckle, "Oh Piper, this case was really dangerous... He shouldn't have gone alone. It's been two weeks and I want to assume the best, but..."

"Okay, look," Piper gestures up to Don, who decided to stand awkward and idle next to the filing cabinets beside the door, "This guy here needs his help, so I'm willing to bet that he's interested in making sure Nick gets home safe and sound, that right?"

"What?" Don arches his brow, looking at the devastation lined upon the upset young woman's face, and then immediately nods, "Oh, oh yeah, totally. I'm _totally_ invested in making sure he comes home safe, don't you worry. We'll... we'll do that for sure."

Great, he got dragged all the way here by some kind of hyper intelligent canine to get help from a guy who went and got himself kidnapped, and now Piper is insinuating that they didn't, as a matter of fact, hit more of a dead end than he would have liked.

"We'll get Nick back," Piper assures her, "Do you know where he went?"

Ellie nods, "I um... yeah, he was looking for a missing girl, Darla, and found out she was taken by a group of Triggermen to their hideout in Park Street. When he checked out the area, he said he found an old pre-war vault down in the subway station that they were using as a base of operations and went down to talk them into giving her up... I'm terrified that they locked him up, or worse... shot him down."

Don's interest peaks at the mention of another Vault; he had no idea there was one down in Park Street of all places. He wonders if it's anything like the one he came out of... if there are more pre-war cryo chambers, more people on ice, or was it some other crazy experiment that those Vault-Tec assholes decided to unleash on a group of scared survivors.

"Park Street's not too far from here," Piper looks back at Don expectantly, "We could make it in and out in a few hours."

Don agrees with a light nod, albeit half-heartedly, he was hoping to avoid any more delays, besides, he already needs to rescue someone. Needing to rescue someone else to do that just doubles his problem. He knew this guy was a hack...

"Alright," Piper stands up, "We'll get stocked up and head out as soon as the sun is up."

"Whoa, whoa, whoaaa," Don suddenly intervenes, "You said it would only take a few hours. That's fine, sure, but at daybreak? That's several. If we're doing this, it would need to be, like, _now_."

"We can't go in the middle of the night, that's suicide," Piper snaps at him, "Do you even know what's out there?"

"More of those horrifying skin suit people?" He guesses, though he doesn't want to run into more of those for a while, he's filled his quota of nightmare inducing horror for today.

"Ferals, Gunner's, Raiders, Super Mutants, god knows what else," She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head in exasperation, "No way, we can't risk it."

"Can we risk _losing time_?" Don folds his arms, "You were the one so adamant that I get help right away."

"Yeah, but do you really think that walking into the Commons at night is worth a few extra hours?" She responds, "It's like a friggin' maze in there, you take one wrong move, or hell, even the right move, and you're walking straight into a nest of ferals, or a Super Mutant Camp. It's not worth the risk, trust me."

Don stares at her for a moment; he wants to argue his point, because to him a few extra hours could mean the difference between a rescue party and never seeing her again. He can't let that happen, he's already risking enough by going against his gut to be here, he know he needs to leave right away. In order to do that, he needs to play along, at least for now. So, instead of challenging her again, he just smiles and ducks his head passively, "Alright, Piper," He agrees, "We'll do it your way."

Piper pauses, studying him with an air of sudden suspicion, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Don shrugs again, lips comically pursed, "I obviously can't talk you out of not going immediately, so, fine. No use in arguing. We'll do it your way."

" _Really_?" Piper asks, hesitantly optimistic and not entirely convinced.

Don nods, "Really."

She turns back around, slowly, still eyeing him until her attention is back on Ellie, "Okay El, if you can think of anything else that'll help us out, we'll be at Publick Occurrences until dawn."

"Thank you, Piper," The other woman smiles with relief, "Thank you so much."

"Hey, it's what I do," She shrugs, sounding a little embarrassed, "Or y'know, it's what _he_ would do."

The rest of their conversation is lost to Don, because the moment Ellie stands to give Piper a much needed hug, he takes a step back, opens the door, and slips out without another word. Outside, he sees Dogmeat standing at the end of the short hall that opens into the alleyway, watching him intently as he approaches. The pooch seemed perfectly content to wait outside for them.

"Come on, boy," Don pats his leg as he walks out into the darkened alley, lit only by the ominous red neon sign at his back that reads VALENTINE'S DETECTIVE AGENCY, and the two walk down and back out into the market side by side. It's gotten weirdly quiet, so much so that it only increases the sense of anticipation growing in Don's stomach.

They cross the market, close enough to 'Power Noodles' that Don can point at Takahashi and call out, "I'll be back for my noodles!"

The bot doesn't respond, but it does watch him as he makes his way through the market and back towards the staircase. It doesn't take him longer than a minute or two to reach the entrance into the city once more. He pauses in the square just outside the main gate where those ferals were gunned down. It looks a little less creepy with the spotlights up and running, but he does notice the bodies have been dragged off. The trails of bloody smears reach around the crumbled statue and disappear behind the remains of a nearby building, where a red glow bleeds out into the street; the rain has backed off so he can clearly smell the scent of burning flesh. It's something he wishes he didn't recognize.

"Hey boy," He crouches in front of Dogmeat, sitting at eye level, "I need you to do me a favour, can you go back to Sanctuary?"

The dog tilts his head curiously, as if to inquire why.

"I need you to go make sure those people are okay, I might take a little longer than I thought." Don runs his fingers through the plume of fur around his neck, it brings him comfort, "Maybe bring Preston a souvenir, like a baseball, or a torn up cap... let him know I made it here, but I can't come back just yet."

Dogmeat whines a little, stuffing his nose under Don's arm as if to point out the jacket that probably has some lingering scent of Carolyn still wrapped in the fibers.

"I'll find her, boy, don't worry. I just don't want you to get hurt too," Don rubs his snout with his thumbs, drops his hands, and nods towards the gate he came through earlier, "So go on. Get going."

Dogmeat hesitantly turns and patters towards the turret checkpoint to their immediate right, stopping at the opening to look back at him with uncertainty before disappearing through the arch.

Don smiles after him; he's a smart dog.

Quickly, he decides to get moving, Piper's going to realize he's gone, but she probably won't come after him until daybreak. Still, he doesn't want to have to argue with her again, or resort to knocking her out if she becomes totally unreasonable.

He walks towards the frame of the doorway where the initial horde of ferals had flooded out of, grabbing the wood as he steps through, he finds himself suddenly pause. He feels something crawling up his spine, but it's different than the fear he experienced when he stood at the peak of Diamond City. It's almost worse, the feeling of isolation.

It suddenly becomes clear to him that he's alone, tangibly alone, and he's going to be alone until he gets to Park Street, possibly even longer if this detective turns out to be dead after all. It's the same feeling he experienced when Piper reproached him, when she spoke to him about wanting to help out, and he realized... that when she insisted they leave in the morning instead of right away, when Don knew he had to ditch her, he had actually looked forward to having company.

He finds that he wishes Piper would have agreed to leave right away, despite being a pain in the ass, it was nice to talk to someone who could have been a partner to him, because she spoke about them like they were already partners and it was strange because he's always done this alone.

He's always been alone.

It was instinctual to send Dogmeat away, to leave Piper behind, because it's something he's always done. It's not that he doesn't want the help; he just can't gauge the actions of people on the battlefield. Hell, he doesn't even recognize himself in the middle of it all.

So... it was a nice thought at the time, but that's all it's going to be.

Don, without looking back to the gate with any kind of expectation, steps through the threshold into the alleyway and begins to make his way to Park Street in the dark.


	16. The Right Place

Despite all the carnage he'd witnessed during his time on the field, after seeing all of the death and destruction that warring sides could create with blind antagonism, Don finds he isn't prepared to finally see it, to stand in the middle of it. He's surrounded by a familiar landscape he's gotten to know in the handful of years he actually lived in Boston, but now it's nothing more than a mountain of ruin and rubble. A super-massive version of what he'd experienced while fighting someone else's war, an image seared and stained. There wasn't a whole lot he could make out through the violent thunderstorm on his way to Diamond City, but now that the moon is peeking out from behind the clouds, he can see it all.

There are heaps of concrete and debris, old rusted cars that had exploded in part from the shockwave and in part from their dense nuclear powered core. He looks up to the skyscrapers around him perched on their crumbling foundations, curled and dead like the remains of a forest of burnt trees, held upwards by nothing more than their reinforced frames built by those anxious enough to take the threat of nuclear doomsday seriously. To what end, he's not sure. All these deteriorating structures would be useful for now are temporary shelters. It's not like anyone actually thought they could pick up from where they left off after the sky cleared.

...right?

The bombs would have done their fair share of damage, all depending on how close the city was to the drop, whether or not it was in the blast radius and got the initial hit, or the aftermath. Don's mind immediately flickers back to the old black and white footage of the devastation of centuries before, what the bomb can do even from a considerable distance. Lamp posts smoking, cement boiling, plastic signage melting, all burning from the intensity of the light seconds before the blast wave reduced it all to dust. He shakes the image aside; he'd fully expected to be at the brunt of the hellish glow when it happened, the fact that he was underground at the time of the drop was pure coincidence. He was lucky enough to skip the rest of the war, to skip the surviving masses turning on each other, to skip the nightmarish battleground he expected to see every time he closed his eyes. He got to go topside into an atmosphere of green.

That was what he wasn't expecting, everything else was here, the debris from melted overhead highways, the streets clogged up by old world fragments, but what he wasn't expecting was so much _green_.

The road ahead and most of the overhead view is starting to become obscured by a thick fog that agitates the Geiger-Counter on his Pip-Boy, but at his feet he sees green much like in Sanctuary. Tall ferns as wide as his torso, grass peaking up through the cracks of the cement, small white flowers growing in an obscure and continuous donut shape, mushrooms with twin heads, lush moss creeping up the sides of every building, vines hanging off of loose debris, and covering the street signs and brick foundations of the outer walls. The abundance of trees appear to overtake most of the old ground level street shops, growing out of open windows despite their frames being lined with the teeth of shattered glass, they stand as tall as some of the third story buildings. Everything around him is broken and forever tainted by war, but the plant life is re-growing without the restriction of Don's fellow man, transformed by two hundred years of abandonment.

In an eerie, bittersweet kind of way, it's kind of beautiful.

However, this place... just like the foundations of the old pre-war houses in Sanctuary, in the walls of Diamond City, and the decaying statue sitting outside of the Cities gates, appears to be overrun by the same blood-red vines that he'd seen before. They look like they're springing directly up from the ground to cling to whatever surface they can find in their search to get skyward, and wherever they happen to grow, other plant life seems to avoid.

Don finds his awe is relatively short lived, and is suddenly eager to move on towards his next destination with the intent to put the matter aside for now. He can't spend another moment letting that sensation of horror crawl up his spine again, making him want to look over his shoulder and up at a group of ravens sitting on a rusted lamp post a half a block behind him as they watch with silent reverence in the dark.

Centering in on Park Street, a repetitive series of sharp metallic clangs echo and clap against the nearby husks of old buildings, practically broadcasting his location to anyone within a several block radius and threatening to wake up anything predatory that might happen to be sleeping anywhere close by.

Despite the dark, the danger, and his worsening condition, Don managed to find Park Street through the maze-like ruins of old Boston and because of what he saw lurking in the shadows he did so very carefully, and _very slowly_.

It must have taken him more than two hours to ease his way here, crawling through alleyways, through old open ended buildings, up to second floors, and through a few trees, avoiding the main streets entirely. He finally touched the old rod iron fence that encircled the swan boat park next to the station entrance. Well, after working around the perimeter, he found the station gate locked up, the padlock so busted to shit that he wouldn't be able to pick it even if he did have the tools on him, so he decided to forgo any more attempts at stealth.

The use of a blunt force instrument was of course, the recourse. Specifically, a crowbar he found along the way that was halfway lodged in a warped wooden door to a closet in one of the collapsed buildings he snuck through. He hopes that the lock is broken enough to give way before anything nasty pinpointed all the noise he was making.

Thankfully, it only takes another dozen strikes for it to loosen, and finally another five or six to send it clattering to the ground after he couldn't twist it off.

"Viola, we are open for business," Don swings the crowbar up, catches it on the bend, pockets it, and reaches out to pull the gate open. He flinches when a sharp metallic scream bellows from its rusted hinges, the bottom scraping against the cement under his feet. It was almost worse than the time his C.O. had dragged a knife over a metal bench to get the attention of Don and his group of rookies.

So, he pulls it open only enough to squeeze his way through; closing it back up behind him once he's on the other side.

At least if anything does manage to sneak up behind him, he'll either hear it try to move the gate or hear it mindlessly clattering against it. He momentarily shutters at the image of those pallid, melted figures pooling into the square in front of Diamond City, he'd rather deal with literally anything else if he had a choice in the matter.

Don pulls his 10mm out, switches the safety off, and approaches the dual set of bluish metal doors. He makes a mental checklist of what he has to work with, so far he's managed to keep only about a dozen shots, but he did pocket a melee weapon on the way, as long as the people in here are armed, he can collect weapons as he works his way through the crowds. What he's worried about most is his current condition, his body is tired and aching from the lack of sleep, lack of food and water, and from his injuries, but... he's had worse, if that's any kind of silver lining. He'll have to keep an eye out for anything that he can use to keep himself on his feet, at least for another few hours.

He peers through the doors to see the descending escalators towards the ticket purchasing station. The door at the bottom sits wide open and the inside glows with the fading incandescence of a man made light source, most likely a lantern or a small fire. It's also a sign of life, maybe one that's not very perceptive.

Don pulls his aim to the ceiling and glides around the doorframe, his knees bent as he quietly descends into the lower level with his eye on the open doorway. He presses himself against the wall, sliding over, inches from the frame, and twists himself to peer inside the next room, studying what he sees.

It's a wide room with a ticket station on the northwest side, a closed door to his left, stacks of crates stuffed in the corner directly to his right, on the northeast side, a dark hallway, and directly in front of him his view is blocked off by a divide sitting half a meter from the ground, from under the orange light is emitting. He crouches to peer under, seeing the legs of at least two metal chairs, and the stacked bricks of some kind of makeshift fire pit.

There isn't a person in sight, and if there were any close, they would be out investigating the noise Don made trying to get in. Odds are he's alone.

He straightens up and enters the room, his back to the crates as he firstly makes his way to the dark hall which leads to the bathrooms if he remembers correctly, it's been a long time since he had to take the Park Street subway station. He investigates to find they're empty, completely filthy and almost totally destroyed thanks to debris cave-ins and two hundred years of janitorial neglect. He does a sweep for anything he can use, but all he finds is a box of Abraxo and hand soap, better than nothing.

On his way into the second bathroom, he stops at one of the cleaner sinks, where small shards of glass lay like glitter in the ceramic. On a hunch, he turns the cold side on, and the pipe lets out a disturbing guttural cough. Mud coloured water splatters in the sink, emitting a god-awful fishy aroma that causes Don to scrunch his nose up in disgust, but he decides to let it run for a moment as he takes a look around.

He doesn't find much else, opts to leave the three plungers he did actually come across, and by the time he gets back to the sink, there's a steady flow of semi-clear water that looks well enough for him to chance a drink or two.

He holsters his handgun and cups his hands under the stream, ducking down to quickly slurp up what he collects and finds that it tastes a hell of a lot better than he thought it would. It could be the dehydration, in fact it most likely is, but he decides to take it easy just in case it makes him sick.

Suddenly he hisses against the sharp pain in his lower lip and reaches up to dab at it tenderly, when he pulls back, there's a little fresh blood on his fingers. He glances up to the mirror over the sink, it's cracked on the side and coated with dust so he gently wipes it clean with the sleeve of his jacket.

He looks at his distorted reflection, focusing on the lower half of his face where a purplish bruise and freshly bleeding gash sit on his lip, obscured by an array of mud smears and dark flakes of old dried blood. His eyes suddenly jerk up to meet his own in the mirror and with a sudden coil of panic in his stomach he jerks up and takes a step back, his mouth open with a hard panting exhale as he stares directly into the face of what looks like a complete stranger.

Don's eyes are dark and bloodshot, his skin flushed hot and red with sunburn, filthy with mud and an old faint splatter of dried blood, his hair is laying limp and tangled to his shoulders like an inky mop, and suddenly he can smell ozone and gunpowder. He looks down at his chest, the Vault suit stained dark by blood, not his, but from other people. The fight in Concord, working his way through the Museum like a tactful extermination, his mind like a tunnel, fight, kill, survive, nothing else matters. His hands come up to wipe lightly against his chest like he could brush off the battle like sand, his heart is thundering, his breathing shallow.

 _...this world, it ain't yours, but it sure feels a lot like the one you left behind, don't it?_

Don steps up to the sink again, cups his hands under the ice cold stream, and frantically begins to splash his face, rubbing at his tender cheeks with carelessness, his hands are shaking, his shoulders locked tense as the water splatters onto the ground at his feet, on his jacket and Vault-Suit. He pulls his hair back, combing it out of his face with frenzied jerks; he can't hear the water anymore, only his heartbeat as it pounds with a thundering pulse in his ears. His mouth is suddenly arid, his tongue dry, he cups the water to his mouth again and drinks more, it suddenly tastes silvery and noxious at the same time, but he doesn't stop until he can't breathe anymore. He coughs, his lungs burning as he falls to his knees at the foot of the sink, bracing himself against the cold ceramic as he tries to focus on breathing.

 _Goddammit_ , he curses internally, _**Goddammit!**_

Don forces himself to take long and steady breaths, to concentrate on the cold ceramic against his face, to the sound of the water splashing in the sink, he reaches down and presses his hand to the floor, on the gritty tile and gently drags his fingers against it, focusing on the stimulation bordering on the line of pain and discomfort.

 _Calm down,_ He orders himself like he's trying to compose a rattled trainee, _Calm down... focus on your five._

One thing he can see, when he opens his eyes, he looks down at his right hand that's holding his handgun he didn't remember taking out of the holster again. It's safe, it's reassurance.

Two things he can smell, the odor of the water, it's old and stale, with the faint scent of sewage and iron from pipes that must have rusted. Another, the smell of gunpowder off of his gun, he's had it for a while but hasn't fired it yet, it must be the residue of whoever owned it before him, he doesn't remember exactly where he got it.

Three things he can hear, the water running in the sink, splattering against the shattered bits of glass, it's not an even surge of water, and it thins out and coughs every few seconds. He can also hear it through the sound of his heart beating in his chest, his BPM lowering steadily-

 _ **CRACK!**_

Don lurches back from the sink, his eyes darting to the doorway of the bathroom as his stomach jumps right up into his throat; his mind goes steely against the unmistakable sound of a distant gunshot, he hauls himself back up from the ground like his body isn't heavy and exhausted, and races over to the doorway to press his back against the wall, gun in both hands, safety off, pointing to the ceiling.

He waits.

His ears are sharp to the sound of footfalls, to any movement outside the room. His breathing is shallow, his body numb to the discomfort of being locked in place, his head is slightly cranked to the side as his ears begin to ring with the silence, and not even the running water in the background is perceivable. In the few breaths that pass, the high pitched whine grows louder, until it twists into a bellowing hiss, like the sound of hot air escaping a pipe, his body flushes with horror, resisting the urge to cover his ears against the sudden shriek that envelopes him, growing louder and louder until he feels himself shrink on the spot, his rear hitting the floor, he surrenders to the sound and his palms press on his ears to try and escape, but the sound them comes to an abrupt halt.

Don removes his hands, the water splashing in the sink is the only thing he can hear within the room, and the ringing is gone. He sits in silence for a heartbeat, before he pulls himself back to his feet and swivels around the corner, adrenaline already coursing through his body as he begins to sprint. It was a scream, a woman's scream. He knows it can't be her, logically he knows it's next to impossible, but he can't help the urgency that fuels him to run. Unconsciously, his feet leap and scatter to avoid rubble, his hand slaps against the ticket counter on his way past the gate towards the stairs leading to the tracks.

What he expects, what he's certain of, is that he's going to stumble right into a subway system full of Triggermen, he's going to find himself dodging the sparks of flying bullets, to scramble for cover against a possible ambush, and for blood splatter to coat the ground like a stray water hose in his retaliation. His training will kick in and he'll fight harder than he's ever fought before with the inclination that he may have found her somewhere within these walls.

What he doesn't expect... is for the entire length of the station and the tracks to be completely deserted.

He stands at the base of the stairs, panting, staring out into the empty damaged platform; trash bins sit aflame and glowing as a series of light sources along the track, the blinking, unsteady fluorescents over his head practically useless in comparison. On the other side of the tracks, a large supply of crates are stacked in piles on a flat train car frame, the shorter ones used more like tables and benches with evidence of more abandoned foodstuffs. The rest of the track is dark and extends further down the line.

And he doesn't hear a goddamn thing.

Don descends onto the rails, pushing at the tunnel walls to keep himself balanced, and his pace is much slower, cautious, as he walks through the shadows. The tracks are long, littered with more debris that he avoids kicking to the best of his ability, he slides past upturned train cars, glass crunches under his feet, he runs his hand along the rusted metal exterior, not as damaged as they would have been on the surface, but still crashed and crumpled as the result of humanity coming to a stern halt.

The tracks end several meters ahead at a collapsed tunnel, and that's when he sees the Vault.

It's carved into the wall on the far side of the tracks, an open excavation left long abandoned with its equipment, it's well lit, on display for any passerby, and the sight of it settles in an unpleasant lump in Don's gut. Contempt for Vault-Tec begins to resurface; his hand tightens around the grip of the handgun. What else did he expect when the station had closed? He'd read the headline of the paper that morning, Park Street Station closed for 'supposed' renovation, inconveniencing hundreds of people who took the train every morning, the bus fair went up, they tried to compensate elsewhere, but it was almost like they knew the end was coming and didn't put in the effort to try knowing that it wouldn't matter the next day anyway.

Well, if it's any consolation, it's incomplete. Looks like Vault-Tec wasted their time and money.

As Don continues his approach, he can see the Vault door is actually sitting wide open, light streams from within like Diamond City's field lights, but standing at the mouth of the entrance is a man wearing a leather jacket over a long stained lab coat. His brown slacks stained to the knees with mud, his short brown hair askew and unwashed. He's standing with his back facing out into the open excavation site and appears to be unarmed, not a difficult target.

Don creeps closer, keeping his footfalls light, sticking to the more shadowed areas of the site until he reaches the bottom of the stairs leading up to the entrance; he can hear the clamour of a crowd within the Vault which intently keeps the man's focus. For whatever reason, the Triggermen are all stuffed inside even though evidence shows that they're usually out and scattered within the station.

Gliding soundlessly up the stairs, Don is only a few feet from the man as he stands quietly oblivious. With a swift motion, Don straightens up and hooks his arm around the neck of his victim and presses his hand over his mouth to muffle the sudden alarmed yelp that he emits. Don quickly drags him from the open line of sight and into the dark, waiting until he's sure that no one heard him before he speaks to his new hostage.

"Hello," Don murmurs in his ear, "And who might you be?"

"N-no one, I'm no one!" The man gasps in a low voice after Don removes his hand, "I don't know about anything that's going on, I have absolutely _no correlation_ to anyone in that Vault!"

"Yeah, I doubt that," Don pulls out his handgun with his free hand and presses it to the man's temple.

"OH GOD, P-PLEASE-!" The man is rigid, panting with fear, "PLEASE, please, I have a wife and a baby on the way, please!"

"Relax, I'm not going to shoot you," Don assures him, "I just want the people in there to _believe_ I am."

" _What? W-Why_?" He wheezes.

"Hostage negotiation," Don states in disbelief, "Duh!"

"W-Wait, please, something's going on in there that he doesn't know about, he's really angry, maybe if you just talk to him, he'll give you whatever you want," The man explains, "H-he's not going to make a deal with you, not for me! He doesn't even _like_ me!"

"Slow down, buddy. I need names. Who are you talking about, exactly?" Don inquires.

" _Who am I talking about_ -Hank!" The man blurts out, "Hank DiAngelo!"

Don nods mildly, "The leader of the Triggermen, yeah?"

"Yes, but he's been gone for a while, I think they staged a coup!" He insists, "He just shot the man responsible, and I think he may have killed his girlfriend or whoever she was, now I don't know what's going on!"

Don nods again, a smile across his face, "And you are...?"

"E-Edward, I'm Edward. I'm his brother, I mean, his brother-in-law, I married his sister," He gasps, "B-but that doesn't matter, he hates me! It won't work if you offer me up as a hostage!"

Don grins, "What's your social security number?"

"U-uh, my file number is 127.6-"

"Holy shit, dude, never mind," Don snorts, "I just wanted to see if you'd tell me or not."

" _Please_ ," Edward states firmly, "I'm just cooperating, I don't want you to shoot me, I didn't even want to leave the goddamn Tower! Pardon my French."

Don cocks a brow, "What Tower?"

Before Edward can answer, a sudden deafening barrage of gunfire erupts from within the Vault. The two men duck down instinctually, Don braces his back against the outer metal lining, but as quickly as it starts, it stops, leaving the two with ringing ears.

There's a silence that erupts, and Don quickly peeks around the corner to make sure there are people still standing, but all he can really see from that angle is the familiar Vault walkway leading down towards an open room stacked with more crates, and in the middle is an indistinguishable crowd that may or may not be Triggerman. He doesn't know what the hell just happened, whatever's going on, if it's a feud, a coup, or whatever, it's unravelling quickly. He needs to get this over with before his _essential dick_ is a goner, if he's even still alive at this point.

"Alright, come on," Don helps Edward to his feet, repositioning his hold in case he needs to bail.

"Please, he won't negotiate with you!" Edward gasps desperately, "He'll just shoot both of us!"

"Well, I guess we're about to find out for sure," Don nudges him forward, "When we get in there, I want you to call out to your brother, and I want you to look scared. If all goes well, I won't have to shoot you, and you can go home to your wife and kid, alright?"

Edward nods shakily, and as they turn the corner to step in towards the Vault he calls out in an unsteady voice full of fear and anxiety that he didn't have to work very hard to make convincing, "H-hey, Hank?"

As the two ease their way down the platform towards the main room, Don is able to make out the people that watch their approach. Men all dressed in suits of different colours and stages of disrepair, circling an open area with over a dozen dead bodies, no doubt the casualties of the gunfire, but Don focuses more on the man standing closest to the front gate who looks like a textbook definition of final boss.

He stands at least seven feet, heavily built, his hands and neck scarred with pallid marks against his sun tanned skin, black hair uniformly shaved on the sides with the top length smoothed back like its untouched by the horrors of the wasteland.

 _I wonder if he'd give me the name of his hair dresser..._

The giant crassly turns on heel, exposing his face to view and Don almost chortles with glee when he sees the classy railroad villain style moustache on his upper lip.

"Ed, I thought I told you to _stay outside_ -!"

He looks up to them, Don standing behind Edward with a gun to his head, making sure it was clearly visible. The man whom he assumes is the infamous Hank DiAngelo, levels his expression into steel, making his natural glower darken into nightmare fuel.

Instead of immediately addressing them, however, he suddenly turns to the young man at his side that looks like he's yet to visit his first nudey bar.

"What the hell is this?" He demands.

The young man shakes his head with a light tremble, clearly terrified, "He ain't one o' mine, sir. He must be here for the dame."

Hank lowers his brow, at a pause, and glances down to the floor where Don can see a young woman in a blue dress huddled up against one of the pillars in the room, she's as white as snow, sweating, panting, holding onto her knee and lower leg like she's in a lot of pain, "Her?"

The older man standing with his hand wrapped around the kids shoulder looks just as afraid, and he steps towards Hank to speak lowly, but Don can still make out what he's saying, "Malone paid the raiders at Corvega to nab a woman from a nearby settlement, some kind of trophy hunt; she was brought in this morning, only been here a few hours."

 _...Corvega?_

That's just Southeast of Sanctuary, a reasonable distance but not so far out of the way. In reality, it could have been any nearby settlement, there could be dozens for all he knows, and he has no reason to assume that she's the one they're talking about-

Don feels a sudden chill and glances over, immediately noticing that Hank is watching him intently, watching his expression, his body language, it makes him feel like he forgot to put on any clothes at all before attempting hostage negotiation. Suddenly the mob boss inclines his chin in an almost smug-like motion and Don can feel his back stiffen, he must've seen something in him just then, something that might betray his condition, or his actual confidence of making it out of this alive.

"Just out of curiosity," Hank languidly turns his head towards the other man, "Was she from a Vault?"

Don resists the urge to glance down, because he knows his jacket is hanging open, his chest may be wrapped up, and his suit may be stained, but it still looks true to the brand to anyone who knows what to look for.

 _Oh Fuck._

The older man looks a little lost, "Uh, they didn't say, but she came in wearing one."

"What was the number on her back?"

"101... or 111, it was hard to make out, she's pretty roughed up, Boss."

Hank doesn't look away from Don the entire few moments it takes, and it takes everything in Don not to betray the sudden flush of shock and adrenaline that kicks up his system, _oh god... oh god, it's her, isn't it?_

"Friend of yours?" Hank asks Don like he doesn't already know, or at least have a good reason to assume.

Don manages to shake his head, forcing his voice steady and nonchalant, "Nope, doesn't sound familiar. I'm actually here for the detective, so, I'd like him in front of me in the next thirty seconds or I blow your brothers brains out, 'kay?"

The Boss only really narrows his gaze at the threat before he opens his arms in exhausted confusion as apparently another variable is added to the equation, " _What fucking detective_?"

Edward might have actually been on to something here, looks like Hank doesn't know a whole lot about what's going on, he could have used that to his advantage five minutes ago before finding out that Carolyn...

Fuck, if it really is Carolyn, he's in some serious trouble, "I'm pretty sure he's the one with the hat and trench coat, probably smoking a pipe, looks a lot like the silver shroud, but hey, uh, thirty seconds isn't a long time to ask questions you know."

Hank holds a hand out to Don like he's being nothing but a minor inconvenience at this point, "You just wait a goddamn minute, alright?"

"Is this a bad time?" Don inquires sarcastically, "I mean I can come back later."

The giant glares at him, and then sighs with a hard rumble before he turns back to the other man who answered his earlier question, "Malone brought home a new flame," He explains, "A detective from Diamond City thought she'd been kidnapped and came to get her and the idiot locked him up in the back. He's still here as far as I know."

"I want him out here in the next ten seconds, am I clear?" Hank growls.

The man nods, turning to leave, but Hank catches his shoulder before he can get more than two steps away.

"And Tony," Hank glances back up at Don with intelligence brimming in his studying gaze, "Bring the dame too."


	17. Truths

Within the side room being used as temporary refuge, one of the Triggerman's finest and most certainly one of the grumpiest stands guard with his back against the wall, his hands wrapped around his SMG, and his ear trained on any activity happening only two rooms away, which at this point is practically non-existent.

"It's too fucking quiet out there," Frankie finally breaks the momentary silence, which didn't last as long as it felt, but he's anxious. There's not much of a distance between him and whatever the hell is going on in the lobby, so he ought to be hearing something, anything.

Maybe his age is starting to show, he can certainly feel it in his joints in the morning.

Frankie turns his head to look at his entourage, which less than an hour ago was only him and Miss. Carolyn, now it's more like a dick measuring contest between him and the only actual dick in the entire Vault. Of course ole' Nicky Valentine had to show up right on time to show off and make him look like a total ass in the process.

Valentine is half sitting on a metal crate next to Miss. Carolyn, sticking close like he's weary of whether or not the old Triggerman would pull something, which, by all means Nicky, be as paranoid as you want. You're the one who got hold up in that office for two solid weeks because of the fatso who just got his brains blown out by the only john he knows that has balls bigger than his biceps. Fuck, what a hell of a sight.

The dick must have felt Frankie staring him down waiting for some idle agreement to his comment, because he glances up at him from just under the rim of his fedora, his bright yellow peepers looking downright disturbing in the dark, like the glowing eyes of some feral or wild animal. In any case, he returns Frankie's glare without much regard and doesn't say anything in response.

Frankie finds himself getting antsy, and he motions out the door with the barrel of his SMG, "You heard all that gunfire, right?" His tone is edging towards something more confrontational in order to illicit some kind of response, "Something must've gone down."

Valentine just blinks at him, "You don't sound so sure about this Boss of yours."

Frankie grits his teeth, yeah sure, he was hoping that Hank would come home and fix this colossal shit-storm that that asshole Malone riled up, but he also hoped it would happen immediately and he wouldn't need to sit around here with his thumb up his ass wondering.

"Fuck it," He growls, cocking the chamber of his SMG like he was switching himself on in the process, "I'm gonna go check it out, make sure all of our guys aren't dead in a hole while we're on standby."

"Look pal, staying put was your idea, remember?" Valentine snaps, suddenly very concerned with what Frankie has to say, "What the hell are we supposed to do if you bite the bullet?"

"You got a gun, don'cha?" Frankie's too high on the rush of anxiousness to consider that staying put is most certainly the best course of action, but his curiosity, among other things, is getting the best of him, "Just head back to the construction zone and stay out of sight, plenty of holes to crawl around in."

Valentine doesn't clap back; instead he looks completely exasperated and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "Christ…"

Ultimately satisfied, Frankie rounds the corner and heads into the adjacent room. Tony asked him to keep an eye on the dame, but he isn't a babysitter, besides it's not like he's planned on running right into the lobby yelling and firing into the air. He'll just have a look; see if it looks like good or bad news, and then sneak back to figure out their next move. He just wants to make sure there's no assault waiting on the very small likelihood that his Boss wasn't able to pick up all the pieces.

With the swing of his focus into the dark, he almost fires his SMG into the wall when he runs into a familiar brick wall of a man; Tony is not a few steps from the door to the lobby when they run into each other.

"Jesus, Tone!" Frankie snaps in a hushed voice, backing off with his hands far from the trigger given that he might fire off a few rounds out of indignation, though his attitude changes remarkably when he can see the silhouette of Tony's expression from the light streaming in through the barred windows.

He looks ashen, gaunt, his eyes wide and afraid as he harbours the appearance of something almost spectral, a dead man walking. Frankie reels back as his brother is suddenly so unrecognizable to him but at the same time unmistakable. For a moment he has the likeness of their father, a man that looked plastic and fake as he lie dead in his bed after a heart attack took him out while he slept.

Frankie's voice shakes as he speaks, "Tone?"

"Is Miss. Carolyn with you?" Tony asks like he can't see the fear in his eyes.

"Y-yeah, man, but-"

"What about Nick, is he still in the overseer's office?"

"Valentine? No," He motions over his shoulder, "No… he's back there with Miss. Carolyn, he came outta pretty much nowhere-"

Tony levels himself down to make sure he's looking him in the eye, his large hands grab both of Frankie's shoulders with a force that could crush a glass bottle, "Shut up, Frank, listen to me. We need both of 'em out there ASAP."

"Man, what the _fuck_ is going on?" Frankie demands, he's already stiff with fear but Tony calling him anything but his nickname makes his heart start to thunder.

"I don't got time to explain, do you trust me?"

Frankie nods immediately, but it's out of panic and instinct rather than affirmation.

"Alright," Tony presses his mouth flat, as if in consideration, and then lets him go, "get out there and blend in with the others, I'll take care of the rest."

Frankie staggers back, letting his brother pass him in the room, and then does as he's told.

Frankie's gone before Nick can argue; the knucklehead is acting rash and might do a fine job of stepping on that proverbial landmine rather than do any actual good. However, with him gone for the moment, he has the opportunity to speak to their collective damsel without Frankie breathing down his neck. Mostly he needs to make sure that she's going to be able to move quickly if the gunfire resumes.

"Alright," Nick stands up, giving his leg a light bend to test that the joint isn't going to pop open if he tries to walk on it again, "We might need to get a move on if our friend doesn't come back."

The woman is still, sitting on the crate with her head tucked down, and staring at the handkerchief he'd given her as she winds it slowly around her fingers. She hasn't said a word since siding with Frankie about staying put, he gets her reasoning, seeming it's based on knowing more about these types of people than he might have originally considered, but the triggerman might be on his way to making sure it's all redundant.

Nick steps over to her and leans down to try and get a better look at her face, her eyes are glazed, she looks miles away, "Hey, you okay?"

She pulls her head up at blinks slowly at him, exhaustion is lined on her face, through the dirt and grime on her complexion she's looking really pallid, assuming that isn't natural for her, but he can see sweat beading on her hairline, and the bruise on her forehead is more swollen than before.

"Um," She closes her eyes again and reaches up to press the back of her hand to her forehead, her fair coloured brows pinched together in pain, headache more n' likely, "I'm fine."

Nick can feel the anxiousness in his chest grow, she needs a doctor, and the only one he knows of close by is sitting on the other side of a group of angry mobsters. Maybe they could've gotten out if she'd taken his side, but if she can't see straight, it wouldn't have done them much good out in the Commons. Getting out of the Vault and back to the surface is one thing, but getting back to Diamond City is a whole other ball game.

No pun intended.

"Alright, how 'bout we get you to your feet first off," He offers, to which she nods mildly and takes his arm as he hold it out to her. He's trying to be as gentle as he can given that he's not flesh and blood, but the second she's vertical, all of the effort she had put into standing suddenly collapses against him.

Instinctually, Nick grabs her around her waist, struggling to keep her upright as he backs into one of the crates with her against him. He has to fight a sudden choking sensation in his throat like someone had their entire hand around his phantom windpipe, "Whoa-Hey, hey, hey-stay with me!"

"Can't..." She breathes out, "I can't..."

Nick grits his jaw and, somehow, using his body as leverage, manages to sit her back down onto the crate without unceremoniously dropping her right on her hind quarters, not that she would have noticed at this point, but it leaves his knees practically on fire, and he can feel his coolant rushing through his body to cool his circuits, but the sensation of the hand around his throat is immediately gone.

 _Christ, what the hell was that._

Nick kneels down in front of her, reaching out to prop her shoulders up as she teeters, threatening to fall face first and right on top of him, "Hey, don't give up on me yet. We still have to get you home, remember?"

Her expression is neutral and exhausted as she shakes her head, "It doesn't matter..."

"Of course it does," Nick argues firmly, "You weren't brought here because they asked you nice."

"I don't have anywhere to go..."

Valentine glances up to the injury on her forehead again, "You're not thinking straight, you need someone to look at that crack on your noggin', we'll get you right and rain and we can figure it out from there."

"I don't know what I was thinking," She doesn't seem to hear him, instead murmuring as though to herself, "I don't have anyone waiting for me out there, I don't have..."

Nick opens his mouth to repeat with insistence that she's not thinking right, but then she looks up at him with some kind of sudden recollection that makes his voice fall short, and she smiles bitterly to herself when he doesn't speak.

"You're a nice man," She says, "You must have a family, a home out there. People you care about and who care about you, you... shouldn't be worrying over me, I don't have... anything out there that I'm in a huge rush to get to, so... if you think that you should go, then go... I'm sure Frankie, or Tony, will help me like they said they would."

Nick stares at her, studying the air of reminiscence in her voice, and after a brief moment of deliberation he leans back to pull his trench coat from his shoulders, shrugging it off and straightening up so he can gently wrap it around her, she flinches, and then looks up at his hands as they adjust the collar around her.

"Sorry, doll," He smiles crookedly, "That ain't my MO."

When she lifts her gaze to him, he shifts the coat and retrieves his screwdriver which had been recently used outside of its intended purpose and still has a bit of color on the metal to show for it. He gives it a quick wipe on his slacks, reaches out to gently grab her wrist from her lap, and then firmly places the handle in the palm of her hand so the long shaft is pointed outwards.

"Alright, we don't know what kind of mess we're going to be in, so I want you to take this, hide it in the sleeve of your suit," Nick instructs, "It's no gun, but it's useful in a pinch."

Her gaze flashes to the screwdriver, suddenly her brow furrows and she focuses back on him, cutting through the haze, it's the same look that made his gears go stiff back in the Overseers office, there's something in her expression that looks too familiar for him to ignore, he can't pass it off as some kind of issue with his processor, somehow... he knows her. He has to.

Problem is he can't remember when, or where, he's met her before and it's frustrating the hell out of him, because it means he can't put the right wires in place to figure it out in this broken mind of his. He's a detective; things like this are part of his job description.

Could be that her face is somewhere within those fleeting images forever seared into his noggin, scrambled and sometimes so confusing and without context that it leaves him with those helpless moments of anxiety and fear that he can't do anything about.

 _Ah, hell..._

Suddenly Valentine perks up to the sound of heavy and hurried footsteps coming from the room where Frankie disappeared. He half expects the mobster to come scrambling back in all alarmed and flustered out of his wits, but Nick is genuinely surprised to see Tony when he turns around. Relieved more like, he seems to be the only john in this joint that knows what the hell is going on.

His relief is fairly brief when he spots the look of blanched horror on Tony's face, however.

"We got a situation," He explains quickly, "I need the two of you out in the lobby, immediately."

Valentine eases himself back to his feet, "What kind of situation are we talkin' about, here?"

"I don't got time to explain," Tony responds steely, "But I'm going to ask you both to trust me."

Nick can see the sincerity in his face even though he can't hear it in his voice. He likes Tony, and so far he's been pretty morally high considering most mobster standards, so trusting him at this point wouldn't go against a lot of his instincts, at least much less than trusting Frankie.

Still... he has an awful bad feeling that he's about to find out about what's making the lot of them so scared stiff.

Without waiting for a positive affirmation from either of them, Tony approaches and Nick takes a step back as the large man kneels in front of their damsel, much like Nick had earlier, and he can tell by the look on her face that she's happy to see him.

Nick's slowly folds his arms behind him, out of sight as the two are preoccupied, and his hands press together at the small of his back and quickly search for Vinny's revolver, finding it still tucked into the belt of his slacks and against his hind. He hopes he doesn't have to use it.

"Are you alright?" Tony asks her.

She nods weakly, "I'm okay."

"Okay," He repeats, and then reaches out to touch her arm, "Look; I need to ask you something... you're from a Vault, right?"

Her expression turns suddenly hesitant, confused, and she nods again after a brief pause.

"When you got out," Tony speaks slowly as if he wants to be perfectly understood, "did anyone else make it out with you?"

The woman opens her mouth more so in surprise rather than to answer, but then her eyes trail down and Nick can see a sudden painful recollection in them, images that flash across her mind like an old pre-war film. She shakes her head and doesn't say anything, but Nick can see her tense up, her hand now balled like a fist around her soiled handkerchief.

Tony nods sympathetically, "Don't worry," He assures her, "You're going to be okay, Carolyn."

The sharp iron stench of blood and gunpowder is heavy in the air and it hits Carolyn like a punch the moment she steps out into the Vault Lobby. To her horror, it's immediate and clear what's causing it. The bodies of triggermen lie scattered around the feet of those still standing, what looks like two dozen suits splashed haphazardly with buckets of maroon paint. Tony is at her side helping her along, and his large body blocks most of the broad view, but it doesn't stop her from seeing enough to be certain. She lifts a hand to her mouth to stop from making a sound to betray her revulsion, she looks away, but their faces don't disappear. Faces that resemble the images of the assembly plant, the look of the bodies outside the Vault. They're all different, in death and life, but the appearance is the same, that dead plastic stare that makes them look like they were never humans at all.

Carolyn keeps her gaze low, watching her path as she has to ease herself over the feet of an unidentified body in her way. When she does finally lift her gaze, she's suddenly catches the eye of the true Boss of the Triggermen.

 _Giovanni..._

Carolyn stares into his face as they approach, his eyes dark and intense, trying to burning a hole right through her. Though she's visibly shaking and nauseous, she finds she's able to return his gaze steadily. God, he looks so uncanny, even up close, it's like she's looking into the eyes of the old Giovanni himself, a man she had considered a close friend in her other life. She searches his face for some indication that he might know who she is, something to give her a hint that it might, in some impossible way, be the real Giovanni DiAngelo.

But Giovanni's hair was silver; his facial hair reduced to nothing but a shadow, across his left cheekbone, a large gouged scar he'd gotten from an angry card shark, laugh lines that stretched around his mouth, moles and liver spots on his temples. This man isn't Giovanni, clearly he isn't but...

His face softens a little, returning her gaze which to him must look more like awe than fear, and then without saying a word, he looks to his left.

Carolyn follows his gaze without much thought to it, looking over to suddenly see two men standing on the grated metal walkway leading out of the Vault. Two people in what looks like to be the other side of a stand-off, only the one in the most immediate view is being held at gunpoint by the other.

He's a tall, willowy man, with large glasses and messy brown hair, and he looks absolutely terrified, sweating profusely, his hands are raised and she can see him trembling. He's in a stained white lab coat covered with a short leather jacket. From behind him, pressing the handgun to the back of his head is the second man whose sudden stark appearance causes Carolyn's world to come to a shuttering halt.

His black eyes are wide as their gazes lock; he looks filthy, ragged, exhausted, and ill. His jacket is hanging limply over his frame, he's in a Vault suit stained dark with something that turns the fabric an almost purple-brown hue. He looks just as bad as she's sure she looks right at this very moment, but despite all of that, there's no doubt in her mind of who it is. Carolyn feels her eyes flood with new, steady tears. She takes a step forward, all of the ache in her body stopping for just a moment to perceive something impossible, she's seeing someone she thought had died, in fact, someone who had been fatally shot right before her eyes and left for dead.

"Don?" Her voice is barely a whisper, shaky.

There's no mistaking his fond and cheeky smirk, even through the grime, "Hey, Carol..." He whispers back.

She lets a sob slip, reaching up to cover it with her hand. Oh god, she never thought she'd hear his voice again.

"So," Giovanni steps up beside Carolyn, his presence looming and engrossed with authority, "Looks like you two know each other after all."

Don's expression goes tense, and it's then that Carolyn processes the situation. Don's holding this man at gunpoint in a vault he couldn't have known she'd been in, what's he doing? What's he doing _here?_

 _Oh god, what's going on?!_

Don looks back over to Giovanni and smiles, "As it turns out, _this is embarrassing_ , I came here to get that detective right there to help me find my friend, who also happens to be here, like _wow_ , how about that, small world right?"

Giovanni folds his arms, neutral but clearly unimpressed, "Small world."

 _The detective_ , Carolyn glances back to where Valentine had followed behind her and Tony. She finds the eyes of the metal man standing a few feet back, bracing himself against the cracked foundation of a support pillar. He returns her gaze, but his face betrays very little.

"So," Don pulls his aim away, and gives his hostage a light nudge. The willowy man staggers and braces on the rail to anxiously gain distance, Don, with his hand raised, then holsters his weapon, "No harm, no foul right?"

Giovanni nods, "No harm, no foul."

"Great," Don grins, glancing over at Carolyn with no mask hiding the anxiety in his eyes, and then holds out his hand stiffly, offering the giant a handshake, "So, whatd'ya say we put that whole nasty bit behind us? You let my friends walk out with me, and we gently part ways?"

Giovanni unfolds his arms, walking up past the man who had been a hostage, and slowly approaches Don, every step causing him to increasingly tower above him, Don pulls his hand back as it risks touching the giant's stomach, but he doesn't avert his eyes even as they stand less than a meter apart.

Don does, however, swallow very visibly, "Doooo we have a deal?"

 _ **WUMP.**_

Carolyn lets out a startled cry as Giovanni's heavy fist craters Don's stomach; she reaches out to him but Tony firmly grabs her shoulder to stop her from doing anything but watch as Don buckles inwards, the impact knocking all the air from his lungs. He staggers back a few steps, his body convulsing as he struggles to breathe through deep and ragged gasps... but he doesn't fall, he manages to stay perched on his feet.

"Y'know," Giovanni sighs, glancing down and inspecting his knuckles, which appear to be smeared in whatever stained Don's suit, "If you'd asked first, I would've given them to you without all the fuss, but you decided that you needed to go and threaten my family and... I don't tolerate that kind of coercion."

After a moment, Don manages to arch his head up, his face is flushed red, there's sweat beading on his brow, and a thin trail of saliva is running down to his chin from the corner of his mouth.

Giovanni cocks his head at him, and then his fist targets Don's jaw, landing with a hard slap of skin and the hollow echo of colliding bone, the smaller man is sent down to one knee.

Tony tightens his grip on Carolyn as she flinches under his grasp.

" _It's okay_ ," She hears him mutter, " _He'll be okay, this needs to happen_."

Carolyn begs without a sound, _Oh god, please no_.

"You're tough," Giovanni continues, nodding down at Don after studying his resilience, "Most johns are out after the first hit, but you... you must've been through some hard times to still be half on your feet like that."

Don coughs then, it's wet and hoarse, but it almost sounds like laughter. Giovanni reaches down to grab a fist full of Don's hair laying like a limp black mop on his head, pulling it back to reveal her friends grinning face.

Don then wheezes, a fresh stream of bright red blood running to his chin from a swollen and purplish gash on his lip, where, Carolyn realizes, he'd been hit by the butt of a rifle back in Sanctuary not a few days ago. A cut violently reopened by the impact of Giovanni's fist.

"Maybe you're just having an off day." Don rasps.

Giovanni hums, as if momentarily thoughtful, and then as quick as a gunshot, he yanks Don's head forward, slamming his knee into the center of his face.

Carolyn smothers a horrified wail in her hands, but it comes out too much like another sob; she can feel the force of the impact reverberate directly into her stomach, winding it tight in dismay and threatening to buckle her knees, watching as Don instinctively grabs the rail at his side to stop from plummeting onto his back. He halfway curls against the rail with a hard gasp.

Giovanni only waits for him to take a few breaths, before his boot lifts and he riles a kick into Don's side. The same heavy boot that crushed a woman's leg with nothing but weight, and Carolyn waits to hear the sound of breaking bones once more, but Don only lets out a throaty bellow, a forceful exhale of air that sounds too much like a moan of agony.

But he doesn't let the rail go, so Giovanni kicks him again, the dull impact of his boot echoing through Don's lungs and into his throat once more.

Carolyn wants to close her eyes, but she can't. She can't look away from the scene happening in front of her like a display, because she knows, she knew before Tony told her, that if Giovanni wanted him dead, he would have just shot him.

No, he's making an example of him.

' _Sorry you had to see that, Carrie.' She can hear his voice, but all she can see is the man tied to the chair in the center of the room, blood dripping from his swollen face, his white dress shirt stained with fresh crimson blood like an ornate floral pattern. She whimsies for just a moment that it might be just that, a strange yet intricate pattern that he was sporting, but she knows better, god, she knows so much better. Giovanni is wiping his fingers clean, the damp washcloth stained with the alarming contrast of red on white, he turns to her with an pleasant hospitable smirk across his face like she just walked into his kitchen while he was cooking, in that moment she can't remember what she had to see him for._

She didn't ask what that man had done to deserve the beating, and she never did find out.

There's a clatter of something hard and metal against the platform floor, and suddenly Don is lying on his side, his arms shaking, his body jerking with coughs, blood splatter spills from his lips and down his face.

That's when Giovanni finally stops.

The Boss looms over Don for a moment before crouching down to speak directly to him, "Don't get me wrong, I respect that you did what you did in order to save your friend, but I don't let anyone threaten my family without consequence."

Don can't even speak, his eyes are bulging as he tries to breathe, but just when it looks like Giovanni is about to stand and leave him to bleed on the ground, he leans over and murmurs something completely inaudible in his ear. Don's expression slowly grounds, focuses, his brows lower, and the mobster pulls back and gives him a lit pat on his shoulder.

Giovanni, with his final word, stands and leaves him lying on the grate as he makes his way back towards his following.

Carolyn expects Tony to let her go, she expects Giovanni to pass the two of them with wordless allowance to let her run to her friends side, to drop to her knees in terror and try to determine if he's okay, if he's going to be okay, if he's able to catch his breath through all the blood coming from his mouth, but Giovanni walks past and grabs her instead.

He grabs her without a word, without looking at her, and pulls her backwards into the Vault by her upper arm without a hitch in his step. The alarm that suddenly floods her is enough to invoke a struggle, she reaches up and tries to pry his hand off, trying to get free while she calls after Don, but her voice sounds so broken and desperate that she can't recognize it. The giant doesn't let her go, and it takes only a moment for her to be ushered into the next room and for Don to be completely out of sight.


	18. Damage Control

DiAngelo had decided, quite a while back, that no matter what happened to him on the surface, he would always make it back home. Everyone had come to expect it after awhile, so he was able to stretch the amount of time between visits from once a week, to once every few months. He would never forgo returning to the Tower, not for anything, and with that mind set came a series of expectations on his part. Leaving for a month this time was a decision he'd made with the knowledge that there'd be a chance everything would blow up while he was gone.

So returning to find Vault 114 in the midst of a grand shit show was something he had already halfway expected, he honestly couldn't afford to think otherwise, not even while it was being led by his trusted lieutenant. Maybe he put too much pressure on Tony to run the show while he was gone, he was always soft in the heart, willing to do the dirty work, sure, but not when it was his call. He's a good leader... a _firm_ leader, fair, gentle, and respected. To DiAngelo, he had a lot of qualities making him ripe for the position of leading the Vault when he was ready to expand. This time, his visit to the Tower had been partially related to giving Tony a chance to prove to him that he had the gall to make those tough calls in his absence. It's one thing to lead with your boss to turn to when you get self-doubt; it's another to have no one but yourself to count on.

Damn shame...

Tony's a good friend, a confidant, and one of the only johns outside of the Tower that knows about Rob and the kid. While he's kept his mouth shut about all that, he's had to do so about worse, so it doesn't come off as too much of a surprise. DiAngelo took a risk in telling him anything about his family... including his so-called affliction. Hell, he's as _good_ as family to him, which might have been a mistake in the long run considering the position he finds himself in now.

He doesn't regret telling him about any of it, he only regrets getting attached pre-emptively because his operation just got set back a month if not more due to an emotionally compromised judgement of his best friends character. The Vault is the beginning of a foundation in which he plans to forge his re-emergence, to reintroduce structure, discipline, and morals back into this godforsaken wasteland. He doesn't have room for weakness or doubt in his ranks, he needs to reorganize and approach the skeletal remains of his men, address them, get the full story, make sure nothing is left over that can manifest and fester into distain or resentment like mold or termites in his foundation that would cause it to eventually crumble.

His review of how he handled Malone, Tony, the kid, and the Vault Dweller reels back in his mind's eye. His composure... stoic, he'd like to think. Killing Malone immediately was the right move, it showed that dribble of wanna-be triggermen knock-offs that their 'boss' held no real power after all. The realization hit them and suddenly their mob mentality shattered into as many pieces as their boss' skull. His girl, however, he didn't need to kill her to get his point across, she wasn't the one running the show, and she only needed to be broken down in case there was any remaining doubt in his authority.

Firm, but merciful.

Then it came down to Tony, leaving DiAngelo to wonder how this all came about with him at the wheel. Had he allowed it? Was he overpowered as a result of mutiny? Didn't matter either way, DiAngelo was almost sure his friend was dead. Almost...He always leaves that sliver of expectation of the unexpected and unlikelihood's of every outcome.

Suddenly, there he was. Materialized out of the shadows like he was waiting for the call, like he knew it was coming and had reserved to appear the moment DiAngelo said his name. In any other circumstance, DiAngelo would glow with the pride and satisfaction from the demonstration of control that one of his men could hold out of loyalty and respect, but this wasn't one of those times.

Tony looked ashen, his composure anxious but confident as he strolled out to face him, he was unharmed, un-bloodied, but the trauma of this coup was clear on his face, and without a breath of hesitation, he took blame for the entire show, offered himself up like a Brahmin calf to slaughter.

It took a lot out of DiAngelo not to smile.

Too much pressure on someone without the right tools to adapt, but he did. His soft hearted lieutenant did what any leader would do, what DiAngelo wouldn't hesitate for a second to do.

Sacrifice himself for the sake of those he considered family.

Of course, it did nothing to curb or cushion his fury. It was still a bad call on his part, and thanks to their collective mistake, Malone had been able to steal and murder his way into hundreds of crates of stolen supplies. He filled the Vault with fresh blood recruits that barely warrant their titles, and what certainly pissed him off the most was the news about Corvega.

The old vehicle manufacturing plant in Lexington is huge, well fortified, and filled to the brim with scrap salvage. It's attached to a major road and trade route, has the potential for prime long distance surveillance and defense, is within walking distance of the heart of Boston, and could eventually serve as a long term surface home for DiAngelo and his family. Five years of steady renovations, salvage, and fortification, and that place could be one of the biggest trade hubs in the damn Commonwealth, burying Diamond City in the dirt where it belongs.

A local gang of mercs had been hired for clean up and salvage of the town, they're just one jet-hit away from devolving into raiders but he knows their leader, Jared, and figured he'd make good on his side of the deal for the amount of caps he was offered. Obviously something happened to his resolve and he went on to eyeing up that factory. All it took was a little pressure and Malone cracked.

DiAngelo can feel his breathing coming out of his nose in rapid, steaming exhales. He doesn't like being undermined, he doesn't like his absence being taken advantage of, he doesn't like being disrespected by a john who can't see five inches past his own cock, and he sure as hell doesn't like it when people forget who they're fucking dealing with.

The boss, resembling an angry upright Yao Guai now more than ever, marches much faster than he normally could when escorting, especially considering the obviously worrisome condition of the woman in his grasp, but he doesn't think about it for more than a moment. Everything was already bad enough without him having to consider kidnapping on that list as well. She'd stopped struggling when they made it to the dorms, it made it easier to decide where to put her for the time being, ultimately he turned the next corner and towards the door of the laundry room.

Confined and secure for now.

He stops long enough to open the door and gently lobs her forward like someone might when passing along a delicate object from across the room. She lets out a small startled yelp and stumbles, almost tripping on her feet before finding balance against the drier.

DiAngelo is seconds from closing the door before she turns around to face him, he expects her to be scared, probably affronted and furious after what he had done to her friend, but she's not. The look on her face is more of an expectant concern, like she'd heard her friend was injured but never actually saw how bad it had been. It's enough to make him hesitate, to watch her for a moment and give her a silent allowance to let her know he's listening to whatever it is she wants to say, and she wants to say something because he can see it in her face, so he's willing to let her cut through his mindful list of what needs to be done by priority.

Her voice is weathered and exhausted, but gentle as she asks him, "Is he going to be okay?"

Just then, she reminds him of his sister, how she speaks to her swollen belly when she thinks no one is around to listen in, not like the baby-voice his mother uses in the same instance, but the calm and loving voice of a mother.

But what she's asking him... it's loaded with a hell of a lot more than what it sounds like. There's something in her tone that resembles a silent understanding, helplessness to the process of things. It's as if she knows the difference between him beating the shit out of someone within an inch of their life, for their survival to be purely coincidental as result of carelessness depending on the intention, and for him to beat the shit out of someone to prove a point and leave them alive on purpose.

She knows he could've just shot him. What she's doing is asking him the real question as it lays hidden behind the words, what she means is something totally different.

Are you going to let him live?

DiAngelo saw that gouge on her back skewing the number of her Vault, and even with a quick glance across her form, he can make out the cuts and scrapes revealing her bruised and scabbed skin through dirt and dried mud. For a moment he actually wants to reassure her that she's not in danger, instead of giving her an answer. He knows she's just a victim, someone caught in the middle that deserves better, but right now she's a category, he does intend to offer 'genuine human kindness' to when he can afford the time, but right now, he can't.

"Maybe,"

He answers her question and then locks the door behind him.

If his hands could shake, truly, genuinely shake, out of shock or horror, Nick believes he would have one hell of a time trying to light a fresh cigarette. As it stands, they _can_ give off a light tremble, but his body doesn't produce any actual adrenaline that causes the adverse reaction. His mind simulates what it might feel like, but it's missing a hit of that full body sensation. The closest he gets to that is when his fans go off, and fresh coolant circulates to cool his system. It's usually due to overheating when he's overactive and when his mind sends out simulations of emotions that could cause a normal human body to heat up, be it embarrassment, sorrow, or anything else in that discomfort category.

The heat of the dented silver-back lighter momentarily hits his cheeks and ignites the darkness around him for as long as it takes to burn the end of his cigarette, thought it's immediately cut off by him slapping the cheap metal top closed, ignoring any positive implications to being able to see more than two feet in front of his face.

He inhales, igniting the immediate space red, creating a drag of suction with his tongue so the smoke coats his mouth and then leaks out of the tattered holes along his jaw and neck; he phantom exhales the rest from his nose and plucks the cigarette from his lips. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, allowing the taste to satisfy that nagging little addiction built into his programming as the smoke billows around him.

For a moment the smog dulls his senses so he can commit to processing what happened, because it did so quickly and without any time for deliberation that Nick is left sitting out here on his hind trying to figure out which way is up. What is he supposed to do now, what does the situation dictate, hell, can he even _do_ anything from where he's at now?

Christ.

His revolver is still sitting tucked in the seat of his pants, he can feel the hard angle pressing sharply against him, thought he doesn't do much to remedy this discomfort except ignore it, it's still there for all the good it did him and it serves as a reminder that he's not as helpless as he acted some twenty minutes ago.

Coward is a word he might use, but he quickly reminds himself of the other johns in the lobby that would have seen him littered with lead before they let him get so much as a shot off. He instead considers that it would have been reckless and without a doubt, fruitless. Besides, how the hell would he have expected to get her out of there when it was made perfectly clear that the polite surrender of a hostage over a misunderstanding warranted a nearly fatal beat down?

Damn it, he gave her his word that he would get her out of there and now he's on the outside while she's not and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.

Nick glances over to his left where the curled up body of Darla lies, she's facing away from him, but he can still hear her soft sniffles and sobs, he can also see her trembling under the cover of his jacket, with cold or with shock, he's not totally sure, probably both. He saw her the moment he walked out into that trilby hat slaughter house, leaning up against one of the cement support pillars halfway in the fetal position with her one leg sticking out unnaturally, her face beaded with sweat, dark circles under her eyes, face streaked with lines of dark makeup washed away with tears. Her breathing had taken an unnaturally rapid rhythm, her shoulders and back tense, letting out little whimpers on every exhale. He'd taken a closer look at her leg to see it was pretty much normal to about the knee, where it had taken to bruising with bright red surface prints like bloody splotches under her skin leading up to her shin where it lay twisted and limp in an unnatural contortion. Nick had knelt at her side, tried to get through to her, but she'd been unresponsive through the shock.

Through the flurry of everything that came afterwards, Nick soon found himself sitting between two bodies in the dark, with Darla on his left; on his right is the Vault Dweller who'd gotten stomped into the proverbial dirt by the Triggermen's boss after giving up his hostage and therefore his only form of self-protection.

It'd been one hell of a display, but he's alive, if only barely.

Nick's no doctor, but the poor bastards been coughing up a lot, and he isn't sure if the blood on his chin is from his lungs, or from the cut on his lip. Getting Darla home as she is was at least feasible until he knew that his good nature wouldn't allow him to leave this john behind either. In theory it's the right thing to do, but he doesn't know how he's going to do with without help. He'd give them each a dose of Med-X or a Stimpack if he was packing, but he almost never is considering their benefits were totally lost on his anatomy.

Catching the gist of the fleeting conversation regarding him showing up out of nowhere at possibly the worst time imaginable, this john had apparently been sent, or came knocking looking for yours truly. It's about time someone did considering how long he'd been gone, he'd bet his hat it was Ellie who'd finally spoken up. It's not the first time he's been gone from the Agency for so long, but the last time it happened was a situation not unlike this one. At least she knew where to send his knight in shining armour, even if the roles have been reversed pretty dramatically.

So, the stranger was looking for him to give him the job of locating a friend of his, which also happens to be the same dame he risked his hind to save earlier that day. He'd argue the formal semantics, but technically he wouldn't have found her at all if he hadn't come around looking for Nick in the first place, so... all in a day's work, I suppose.

Nick smoulders the butt of his smoke in the dirt beside him and that's when the Vault decides to finally make a peep after an hour or so of silence. The large metal door makes it eerie and audibly torturous descent inwards to be rolled on out of the way and allow light back out into the abandoned dugout subway tracks from pre-war construction.

The silhouette of a tall man breaks the wide stream of light from the inside as soon as the ramp extends to form the bridge to the outside catwalk; he hurries down the steps in a balanced rhythm and demonstrates a tense and anxious skip as he approaches.

Tony stands about two meters away like he's afraid of getting too close, or doesn't want to intrude on the space he's no longer is invited to occupy. For a moment, he doesn't say anything at all; instead he glances over at the two casualties that have been keeping Nick company.

"How, uh... how're they doing?" He asks hesitantly.

Nick can't tell him any more than he can just assume by looking at them, so he doesn't say a word, as a matter of fact, he doesn't _want_ to. He doesn't even want to speak to him, so he stares up at Tony with a light grimace, and lights himself another cigarette with the air of livid nonchalance.

Tony puts his hands out passively, starting off slowly knowing full well he can't tiptoe anymore than he can lie, "Look, I know... what happened back there wasn't according to plan-"

" _You're goddamn right it wasn't,_ " Nick's voice is as sharp as the sound of him snapping the lighter closed a second time, he takes a single puff but doesn't exhale as much as he bites through the smog as he turns to jab the cigarette at him like an extended digit, "You asked us to trust you, you asked _her_ to trust you."

"Hank isn't going to hurt her, Nick, jesus!" Tony yelps, startled.

"What, like _him_?" Nick whips his hand back to motion to the half unconscious Vault Dweller, "All the john did was wave a gun around, you mean to tell me your boss ain't going to do much more than what Malone and his crew had planned for her?"

Tony presses his hands together and pushes them against his mouth for a moment, his voice stays level in reassurance, "Nicky, I promise, he ain't gonna hurt Miss. Carolyn. You lot better just hit the surface while things cool down."

"I might've gotten paid to bring Darla home before this whole mess started, but if you think I'm going to let someone else take her place in this hell hole, then you ought to just shoot me now to level the playing field," Nick snarls, "You lot obviously got no problems with that."

"He wasn't about to just give her up after he threatened to shoot Ed!" Tony snaps back, pausing for a moment to exhale and run a hand through his hair as if to collect himself once more, "Look... Hank... he operates different from you or me. He hurt Darla because she attacked him for killing Malone, and he's letting her go because she stayed down. This john asked for you; he got you only because he _took_ that beating, but Miss. Carolyn..."

Nick stares up at him as he recalls what the dame had said earlier in favour of staying put rather than trying to high-tail it through the chaos. She was real damn sure of what she said, sounded experienced in a way that he didn't expect. Hank needed to take back control, to demonstrate what happens when you try to weasel your way around. He'd do what he needed to do, and that didn't involve antagonizing her. Nick considers it for a moment, knowing full well that if that john wanted someone dead, he would have done it with a well placed shot and not bother with the additional exercise.

"Fine," Nick slaps a hand feebly against his leg, out of habit he checks the state of his cigarette, and taps off the excess ashes, "So, what does your boss want then, some kind of tribute? Should we _pay_ to get her out of there?"

For an instant, Tony looks totally aghast, " _Christ, no_." He huffs out, "As much as we could use the caps, you'd do nothing but insult him if you tried to offer some kind of ransom. She ain't a piece of meat."

Nick can feel the indignation brewing in his chest, but he doesn't want to antagonise him any more than he already has. There's nothing stopping Tony from turning right around and locking that heavy Vault door behind him if Nick get's any angrier.

Not a piece of meat, you have any idea who you're talking to?

"Well," Nick smothers the cigarette into the dirt next to the others before it's more than halfway smouldered, "Why don't you offer a little insight then? You seem to know plenty about this boss of yours."

Tony studies Nick thoughtfully for a moment, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I know for a fact that he won't make a deal with you," He explains, "He doesn't know you, and you've done nothing to piss him off or disrespect him as far as he's concerned, your just a civilian, and now that you're out of his Vault, you're not his problem anymore."

Nick nods, surprisingly enough he isn't actually insulted, "Well, nice to know my looks got overlooked for once in my life."

Tony smiles humourlessly at that, "He's an egalitarian, doesn't discriminate, kind of a good quality if you're willing to forgive the rest."

Nick gives Tony a look that he can only respond to with an understandable nod before he continues, "Anyway, he won't look twice at you, you try and he'll ignore you, but _him_ ," he nods at the Vault Dweller, "He took one hell of a beating, I've never seen someone take as many of Hank's punches as this one did, I could tell that he was impressed by his constitution. And, he gave up his hostage when he saw Miss. Carolyn, he's earned his attention. I think Hank would give him a chance, he might be hard edged, but he's not totally unreasonable."

Nick blinks a little in exasperation, sighs, and reserves his judgement, "Alright, what did you have in mind?"

 _I'm giving you what you came here for, but the rest is something you have to earn._

Don coughs and a spiralling wave of pain overwhelms him, his gasps take air where it's supposed to go, but not without feeling like he's inhaling a cup of acid with every breath. Before this, he assumed his ribs were barely fractured from the gunshot wound, but after the blow to his stomach, he's sure something must have dislodged.

After being kicked half a dozen times, his ribs must have minced whatever flesh used to be surrounding his lungs, he hopes the taste of blood in his mouth isn't from his airway, because it's one thing to get the shit beaten out of you on a Monday, it's another to have a rib puncture your lung in a world without an ER.

He tries to breathe shallowly as his fingers discreetly press along his side in exploration, like he's expecting to be able to pinpoint where the pattern of bone is sitting wrong, but there's no pain to follow because it hurts everywhere.

All at once.

After a moment of that he realizes there are idle voices echoing around him that he can't hear properly, not until he stops poking at himself long enough to concentrate. The moment he does, he processes the sound and realizes they're directly next to him, directly _over_ him. His senses switch on like automatic high-beams; his body spring loads up from the ground and up on his hind in a startlingly paranormal display.

One man, a large fellow in slacks and a vest, literally jumps about two inches from the dirt with a yelp, while the other...

Don pauses, turns his head, and then looks straight over at the second man in total bewilderment as he sits a few feet from his left, also obviously startled.

For a moment Don considers he might have possibly had a stroke, because this guy clearly isn't the right colour. His skin is grey with a weird tattered texture like worm plastic, pieces of his jaw line are _missing_ , and Don can see the metal frame of what looks like his _jaw_ _bone_ , he can actually _see_ straight through his neck. The coloured wires and skeletal frame sit in plain view thought the holes in his skin, Don stares in marvel at whatever the hell he is, and staring back, are his two bright yellow eyes which look to be awkwardly skirting from him, to the standing man, and then back to him, or more specifically, the blood running down his chin.

The robotic man then cocks an undefined but expectant brow at him when Don doesn't say anything right away and the motion is as smooth and stoic as the black and white movie mobster he resembles, if the hat doesn't give it away, it's certainly the aura of noir.

"You," Don smirks, "Must be Nick Valentine."

The robotic man nods mildly with agreement, his voice gruff and aged, "Must be."

"Well then, _detective_ ," With an awkward and painful skid, Don manages to lift his ass up and sit closer to the bot without betraying it in his face, making a poor visual rendition of a love-struck teenager trying to get closer to his pretty flame, "What's a nice man like you doing in a place like this?"

Nick glances down to the new spot Don is occupying, plenty within his personal bubble, but he doesn't shift to gain distance, or lean back. He only eyes Don with a critical and studying glare.

"Surely the nice dame who sent you gave you the details," He responds, "Runaway daughter, vault full of mobsters, and a sympathetic detective?"

"Why yes, a nice young lady _did_ happen to send me your way, _wow you're good_. And what's more, you happened to solve _my_ case before I even told you about it, ha!" Don slaps Nick's chest, bouncing his hand off of the detectives slightly dishevelled tie, "This guy is the real deal, I took one look at those god-awful neon signs and thought he-!"

The moment Don makes the abrupt twist, he's quickly reminded of the agony going on in what used to be his ribs, and he exhales sharply, pressing a hand to his side. Surprised that bolting upright earlier didn't harbour the same reaction, apparently the pain is _movement specific_.

"Hey, take it easy there buddy," The standing man take a few steps closer, "You took one hell of a beat down earlier, try not to hurt yourself."

Don groans, resisting the urge to plop right back down onto the ground because it most certainly isn't a bouncy mattress and his body might just burst open like a bag of flour from the impact.

Also, he only took one hit to the face, and his memory is surprisingly intact. So, yes, of course he remembers getting his shit kicked, thanks a bunch.

"I don't know what's more embarrassing," Don manages to fold one of his legs in to put his weight down on the side where his ribs are still in one piece, "Getting my ass kicked by a bear, or thinking I just woke up in a sewer after surviving a bender. Hey, while we're on the subject, you mind me asking, just out of curiosity mind you, where the fuck that bear went so I can politely shove my foot in his ass."

"I honestly don't think you'd survive the attempt," Nick responds neutrally, "Assuming you could stay vertical long enough to get that far."

"You're right," Don admits, leaning over to prop his chin on his hand so he can stare up into Nick's eyes lovingly, "I'm not even flexible enough to get my foot that high, he's like ten feet tall. But, to my credit, I've done the splits exactly once in my life, and it was _not_ intentional...doesn't mean I can't do it again if the situation calls for it, I mean, my muscles are like _rubber_."

Don smiles, and then holds out a hand, "Don Takiyo."

Nick glances down and then very hesitantly shakes his hand, "Yeah."

The standing man doesn't seem to catch the perfumed air and instead looks nervous, shifting his balance from one foot to the other and he tosses a look back to the Vault door, open, brightly lit, and...

Don follows his gaze and the moment he sets his eye on the pillar of light coming from within the reel of memory hits him like a flashback. Somewhere in the back of his head he can still hear Carolyn through the ringing in his ears. He didn't want to go down, not in front of her, but he realized that it was the only way the goliath wouldn't kill him; he wanted him to hit the floor and he was willing to go that far.

He didn't want her to watch him die again.

And all that drama was for holding his bother hostage? Sure, why not? It makes sense, but what seems far more likely is that it was an opportunity to make a display of power in front of his men.

So, Don had given up, _given in_ to the process, but he wasn't ready to see Carolyn being dragged away, to hear her scream his name after not being totally sure he would ever hear it again...

Don suddenly turns back to the tall man with a jerk of his head, like looking away from the light will make the images and accompanying sounds disappear, but they don't, "I digress," He says, "When can I expect to get my friend back from the pit of despair?"

Nick, who'd been watching Don's face storyboard the last twenty four hours with a studying intensity, follows his gaze to the other man as if he himself was awaiting the answer. The man looks at the two of them for a moment, as if in deliberation, before he ducks his head in defeat, "Alright, you want the short version?"

"Please and thank you," Don smiles.

"You gotta earn the right to ask for her."

Don retains his smile, but it isn't out of pleasantness.

" _Pfft-WHAT_?" He guffaws, his voice going high from strain because yeah, he'd heard it earlier from the big man himself, but that doesn't mean he understands what the fuck he meant by it, "You mean to tell me that I just endured the beating of a century, _seriously, I hope one of you recorded that,_ and that was just, _pfft_ , not good enough?!"

"Look, pal. We're not happy about this either," Nick interjects, "I was already trying to get her out of there before you showed up, presumably he was too. At his point we're out of options, might as well go along with whatever he has in mind."

Don returns the robots gaze, that's right, this guy was in that Vault with her, seemingly he rescues people for a living, so it is actually totally possible that he tried to help Carolyn, which is why he's still here and not half-way to Diamond City by now with what remains of his original kidnappee.

"Malone gave up one of our main income sources," The other man begins to explain without waiting for Don's agreement, "Corvega. It's a mess I know he doesn't want to clean up, not when our numbers just got cut and we're running low on caps and firepower. It's full of raiders, but if you clear that place out, he'll give you whatever you want... within reason."

"Oh, is that all," Don responds meekly, "Just clear out a hundred ravaging psychopaths? Got it. No problem. Say, you got any glue that I can use to piece my shattered ribs back together? Duct tape, maybe? Honestly, I'd be good with just about any kind of adhesive right now."

"Look, there's an overpass with a good vantage point," Tony continues, "I'll send two of my men up there to watch for activity. You take out the raiders; they'll be able to see it from up there. Once it's clean, they'll bring the word back around, and Hank'll be so pleased he might even kiss you."

"Do I actually have a choice in the matter if he decides he's that happy?" Don wrinkles his nose, "I mean, I'll give it a far shot, but if there's unsolicited kissing involved as part of the reward system, I want to chose who I get to be on the receiving end of."

The tall man shakes his head, turning around and marching all the way back up to the Vault to seal the door once more behind him. Once all is said and done, the door finally settling back into his perfectly crafted seal, Don and Nick are suddenly alone excluding the girl on his opposite side.

"Corvega," Don says thoughtfully, "I don't suppose they're the same group that handed my friend over to the mob?"

Nick glances over at Don, "Presumably."

"Alright," Like an unconscious reflex, Don reaches up and gently grazes his fingers over the bullet still lodged in his sternum, "I can work with that."

As a sudden and very serious air begins to assemble between the two, Don raises his brow, staring out at nothing but dark in the tunnel now that the light from the vault has been cut off, "By the way, is this a bad time to ask for your number?"

 _Maybe._

The light is sucked from the room in seconds, the door closes tightly behind the man resembling Giovanni, and though she isn't completely sure it's locked, she doesn't make a move to reach forward and try the door switch. What would she possibly do if that were the case? What could she do that wasn't fruitless or simply out of her reach?

In her logical mind she reminds herself that she knows what had really happened, and that if Giovanni really wanted to kill Don, she wouldn't be standing here wondering if he was going to be alright, she would know for sure that he's dead.

The unfortunate thing is, her logical mind isn't in charge at this very moment, in this fragile moment where her emotional mind is trying to decide what to commit to, her logical self is more like a tiny person at the controls trying to press the right buttons before her system overloads, but the buttons are in another language, they're twisting, convulsing, denying reason, and her logical mind is begging her just to _understand_ , but all she can see, all she can hear is Don and the sounds he made with each strike, how his face contorted into something unrecognizable to her, and the numbness followed her shadow, the shock, or apathy to help cushion the blow of trauma... it doesn't hit her until it's quiet again.

The washer she's using to support herself suddenly slips away from her grasp, her body slides to the floor with a long unceremonious squawk of ceramic. She leans back against the machine, breathes deeply, once, and then exhales it in a wail of agony.

The images flood her senses the moment she closes her eyes, not just Don, but everything up until this point that she's tried to forget and push out of her mind. Like a movie on scattered repeat, the images assault her and her chest curls in horror, her stomach tightens, ready to upturn, to commit to losing her composure and plunge into inconsolable insanity, but like a candle in the dark, in some instinctual moment, the right button is pressed, the right switch, and she finds herself thinking of something else, someone else...

She begins to think of her son.

It was the moment she realized he was gone, truly gone, that she made a silent and subconscious decision not to think about him, not until she was safe and could process her grief properly, but it's like the seal breaks the moment she looks for relief to her agony. Like turning to a narcotic that'll dull the pain for now, but the resulting aftermath will follow eventually. She knows, but still, she commits.

Looking at him for the first time was... the happiest moment of her life, the bliss and relief she felt was unimaginable. He was so _beautiful_ , so tiny and helpless, but he fit so perfectly in her arms and against her breast like he was always meant to be there. Her small squirming baby that would eat and eat and eat, and wouldn't cry for anything more than a full diaper. An angel, a godsend in a world where she felt she needed it the most.

What she wouldn't give... if she could just hold him in her arms again. To hear his little voice making those little sounds trying to communicate, Carolyn felt like she always knew what he was trying to tell her as he looked up at her with those eyes of his, those baby blues he got from his daddy. She could forgive him for that, she felt like she could forgive the world.

What would he have looked like? Probably like his daddy, but maybe he would have inherited her vitiligo? No one else on her side of her family had it, but her mother was Irish and she could remember trying to count the number of freckles on her face and failing, she said it might be a recessive trait that she inherited from someone further up the line.

She pictures what Shaun might have looked like in his adult years, probably tall, maybe a little chubby if he decided it was okay, blonde for sure, just to match his eyes. Would he like girls or boys? Maybe he'd like both; he'd be a little heartbreaker for sure. Would he ever get married and have kids of his own with someone whom he loved and loved him back? She would have loved to be a grandmother...

It hits her right then... following the memories and those thoughts she'd locked away were the after thoughts just cueing up for their turn. This way of thinking, this way of picturing her life, her son's life, it's impossible now. If by some miracle everything had turned out okay, if she had woken up from cryo-sleep, reunited with her husband and held her baby once more, lived out her life in the Vault as they would see fit, there was nothing about it that would have been the same. No sunlight, no grass, no white picket fence, nothing, not anything, no-

No... There's nothing for her out there now.

As the thought ends, her panic staved off for now, she can hear that there's a flurry of footsteps outside, indistinct voices shouting at each other, issuing orders maybe, but none that stop to investigate the room, and for several moments she feels as though they must have forgotten her. It's not until it goes quiet again that she can hear the slow and heavy footfalls of someone very large, and very heavy, as they approach and stop right at the foot of the door.

Carolyn figures she ought to be afraid, but she knows the gait like she knew _his_.

The door slides open with its familiar mechanical swish, the light pools in from the hallway once more, but it's followed by a gust of cool air, it must've heated up in here pretty quickly.

When Carolyn opens her eyes and looks at the open door, a figure stands silhouetted by the light in the familiar shape of Giovanni. He's staring at her with a large smouldering cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he inhales deeply, reaches up to pluck it from his lips, and lets a thick cloud of tobacco smoke pour out of his nose and mouth like heavy fog.

"You and I," He motions down to her with the cigar, speaking deliberately, "We need to have ourselves a chat."


	19. Commonwealth Sky

There's an old pre-war saying about not being able to appreciate something you have until it's gone, well, that can mean a lot of things for a lot of different people, and not many folks nowadays have enough to lose, or anything to miss. To Nick, it was as simple as being out of doors. It was something he always enjoyed, especially after he had an occasion to spend a good chunk of a week in his cramped, somewhat homey, Detective Agency. At first it was Ellie trying to keep him sane, encouraging him to 'get some air' even though the benefit was entirely lost on him, but he found that he liked it regardless. First it was just taking a lap around the bases, and then it grew into a mile of scenic route up north of the river, through those old houses boarded up if not broken down.

It cleared his head for the most part; he was able to re-approach whatever case had been giving him trouble at the time, but he soon felt like he was following some kind of old pattern. He couldn't figure out at the time what it was, but the answer was actually pretty simple, he's just done it all before.

Ole' pre-war Nick Valentine must have done something similar, just walking, not thinking about much in particular, just enjoying the view, the breeze, and the quiet. The realization didn't bother him as much as he thought it might, it's not like the old cop invented going on a nice stroll. So they happened to both enjoy a walk, no big deal, he wasn't about to let it ruin a good thing. That's what he told himself, at least, when the almost guaranteed impending existential frustration was ready to knock on his front door.

The sky is starting to glow orange between the streets, and the collective trilling of birds echo through the otherwise quiet avenues as they nest within the twenty to thirty story structures around them, making good use of the overgrowing foliage as it climbs those hundreds of feet to coat the outside ruins of what used to be office buildings. He'd made the mistake of wandering into one of those particular oversized bird sanctuaries, the inside looked like it had gotten a fresh coat of white paint and the smell just about knocked him on his hind. Not his proudest retreat, that's for sure.

Standing a few feet from the gate of the Park Street Station, Nick takes a second to just listen; relishing the idea of going on one of those walks of his, but unfortunately the sun is going to come up soon and he's got some extended babysitting to attend to.

He'll have to compromise and settle for the sights and sounds right here in front of him.

He'd managed to get Darla to co-operate, to the extent of her begrudgingly agreeing to cling onto his back while he hauled her topside. They went back through the subway where he'd come in initially all those weeks ago, there was a back door that lead out into an alley, but he wouldn't have been able to get her up that ladder and out the manhole without hurting her further, plus it wasn't exactly sanitary.

While he worried about Darla and her discomfort, he also had to keep an eye on that fellow 'Don' as he walked limping a few paces in front of him, thank goodness he didn't collapse or trip, because Nick sure wasn't up for watching him tumble or fight his instinct to catch him because that would mean dropping Darla to dive bomb after his skull to keep it from bouncing on the tiles. He figured a grown ass man could harbour enough instinct to at least put his hands out in front of him if it came down to it.

Suddenly, like it was scripted, Don interrupts Nick's moment of calm, "Y'know. If I knew that this whole side-quest was going to leave me with more wounds and more things to do, I might have considered just staying in bed this morning."

Nick deems the feeling mutual, slopes his shoulders now that the moment is gone, and turns back towards the gate where Don is leaning with a slump against its concrete frame. It's safe to say that he looks like crap, his breathing is laboured and he looks like he just pulled a two week binge without any sleep, but at least he's able to walk and his state hasn't appeared to dull his mood.

Unfortunately...

"I _think_ it's safe to say that going back West through the heart of Boston isn't the safest route given that one of us can't walk and the other could probably be knocked over by a stiff wind," Don gingerly pokes his thumb against his chest, "Me, that person is me. One stiff wind and I'm a goner."

Nick blinks neutrally and waits for him to finish.

" _So_!" Don exclaims, "I say we go east, out of Boston, take the long way around the north end of the river. Head over to Cambridge, or, y'know, whatever's left of it, and cross the river again. Boom. Boston avoided."

Nick shakes his head, a little disappointed that the idea isn't better than what's been rolling around in his noggin' the past fifteen minutes, "The bridges on the north-east side of the river are generally crawling with either ferals or super mutants, everything else from here to there is owned by the Gunners or some organized group of raiders."

"Ho-kay, what about South?"

"Too far," Nick sighs, "Though it might make for a nice stroll if two thirds of us were in good health."

Don gently crosses his arms over his chest, flinching a little as he does, and studies Nick through a light grimace of pain, "So-oo, are you going to tell me _your_ plan, or do you want me to keep deliberating for your amusement?"

Nick cocks a little smirk, _he's not dull, I'll give him that_ , "I wanted to see how long I could stretch it."

" _Funny-y_ ," Don exhales, "Let me guess; you have some Med-X in one of your pockets too?"

Amused, Nick passively raises a hand, "Look, in all seriousness, I was hoping not to have to use it, that's all. I was waiting for you to come up with a better plan."

"I walked into a mob den with a single hostage at gun point," Don states placidly, "Do I look like a guy with a plan?"

"It was a bit of a gamble..."

"Okay, so, excluding everything up until now in regards to any of my ideas, do please explain how you intend to get us the hell out of dodge in one piece."

Nick shrugs, "Well, we're not going back to Diamond City, for starters."

Don raises his brows, "Beg pardon?"

"There's a settlement nearby," Nick explains, "Goodneighbour, and I happen to know the john who runs it."

"Uh, how close is _nearby_?"

"About two blocks that way," Nick quickly points towards the north-east exit road.

Don opens his arms in exasperation, suddenly feeling no pain apparently, " _Okay, wow, seriously?_ _It's_ _literally just over there? This whole time?_ "

"Yeah, that one's on me." Nick admits.

" _That's one's on y..._ " Don reaches up and runs is hands over his face, combing through his dark moppy locks, "Shit, okay, I _have_ to know the story behind why that isn't plan A, because that's fucking _ridiculous_."

Nick sighs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks, hoping to divulge only as much information as necessary given the particular... topic. As it stands it's the last thing he expected to bring up at the end of his imprisonment, surprises all around, "Let's just say I haven't been around Goodneighbour in a while and... the mayor and I have history. I was hoping my first visit after so long wouldn't include dropping two victims of a mob dispute at his doormat."

Don stares at him for a moment, his gaze narrowed in serious analysis that Nick realizes, moments too late, is going to take his lack of facial cues to affirm everything he wants to know. There's something to say about reading someone's reserve with just as much clarity as total emotional transparency, not everyone can do it, and Nick considers in that moment that this john might be a hell of a lot more than he appears.

Don then smirks, and it's accompanied by an expression of dangerous curiosity.

Nick doesn't like it one bit, it feels like he just picked him up like an old leather bound journal and read all his contents, suddenly he feels naked without his jacket.

" _Ohhhhh,"_ Don nods, "I see."

"Yeah, so you'll forgive my hesitation on the matter."

"Oh, _now that just won't do_ ," Don suddenly guffaws like he was holding it all in with nothing but scotch tape, "We'd better come up with a new plan to avoid the emotional trauma of asking your _ex_ for help!"

Nick feels his coolant beginning to circulate and snaps in indignation, "Look pal, if it wasn't a good idea, I would've kept my mouth shut!"

Don raises his hands, "Alright, _calm down_! We all have a little history, Mr. Valentine, there's no need to be embarrassed."

The detective would be flushed if his anatomy allowed it, thank goodness he doesn't suffer from that adverse reaction, at least not topically, "Yeah, yeah, are you in or not?"

" _Uh-duh_ ," Don points eastward with his thumb, "I'm in no state to crawl through his place by myself!"

"Good, then let's get the hell out of here."

"You're the boss."

 _Thank God..._

Nick huffs as he approaches the gate, his fans are kicking in too now, he knew it was a mistake mentioning Goodneighbour at all; he should've kept his damn mouth shut and risked going south.

Ignoring Don for the moment, he instead focuses on Darla, kneeling down in front of her to get an impression of her state. He'd let her settle for a few minutes after carrying her up here, it wasn't easy on her leg, while she didn't complain, he could hear it in her breathing, every nudge or misstep was probably like pressing puree on a blender.

He'd wrapped his jacket around her earlier, but still she has a light tremble and the cold beading sweat on her brow tells him that she's still in quite a bit of pain, her dark makeup is smeared and running down to the corners of her mouth, really accentuating the discolouration of her skin. When she glances up at him, he can see the whites of her eyes now stained red, her eyes swollen.

"How're you holding up?" Nick asks her gently.

Darla frowns a little, and says nothing.

"We're heading over to Goodneighbour; think you can make the trip?"

She curls her lips a little, her voice is fragile, but still manages to house a little venom, "Don't got a choice, do I?"

"Well, not so much," Nick sighs, "Look, once you're fixed up, I'll take you back to your folks. You want to take off again after that, it's up to you. Can't promise they won't send me out after you again, though."

Darla's expression suddenly drops, and her eyes glaze with tears.

Nick feels himself jolt a little and jokes on instinct, "Hey, come on. I'd at least give you a head start, no sense in breaking my back trying to save someone who doesn't want to be saved, right?"

She shakes her head, "I ain't gonna run off again, why would I? I don't got a reason to anymore."

Nick opens his mouth, but decides not to say anything more, and nods sympathetically. He never saw exactly what happened to Skinny, but judging from the mess he left behind, it wasn't pretty. He doesn't know the exact nature of their relationship, whether it was a fling or some semblance of 'true love' but either way, it must've been damn hard to watch.

"Come on," He pivots on his knee so she can climb onto his back, thankfully his leg isn't bothering him as much as it had been after Vinny kicked it in, "We need to get moving, I'll try to be gentle."

Darla eyes him, but does actually shuffle over to cling onto his back, he loops his arms under her knees, mindful of her broken leg, and manages to get to his feet; thankfully she's not a very big girl.

Nick passes a silent look of acknowledgement towards Don, only to see that all the evidence of the man's elated mood has now been replaced by empathy. If it's towards Darla, or himself, Nick can't be sure, but he's suddenly thankful for the mournful quiet between the three of them as they slowly, quietly, make their way up the road towards Goodneighbour.

Nick can't help feeling a knot of anxiety swell in the hollow bit of his gut. After all, it's been almost a year since he's spoken to John Hancock.

Sometimes, more often than he was willing to admit, John Hancock partook in his far share of all-nighters. Generally they were accidental, you take a sip, you take a hit, and suddenly you're blinking into the sunrise wondering where the hell the rest of your night went. It happens, especially when you're on a particularly good trip, and it's how you can kill a hell of a lot of time in what feels like minutes.

Last night... wasn't one of those nights.

Hancock, for lack of a better term, was fucking exhausted before the sun had even gone down and he committed to that peak level of fatigue like it was his fucking blitz-day present. (That being something Fahrenheit and some of her Watchers liked to call his 'ghoulification' or 'anti-birth' day mostly because it sounded cool.) Just like that he was out like a fucking light before his hat could even hit the floor.

At the time of this particular commitment, his weariness had been a three stack combination of some of those so-called 'all-nighters', infighting at the Third Rail, and an extra helping of drama from the Watch. Turns out one of his own damn people had been replaced. One of his citizens, who at the time had been going through one hell of a personality shift, was cornered, questioned, and subsequently shot. Hancock had heard it from his balcony.

In cases like that, Hancock didn't want to jump to conclusions, but considering who the guy was, and what kind of shift he went through, there wasn't a whole lot of room for doubt. He'd been another low-life that occupied space around here, another local with a few personality quirks that didn't make him fit anywhere else. Suddenly he's a saint and no one could figure out why, at least, not at first. He let the Watchers make the call when the time came.

Being in charge around here isn't without its bad days, but he'd rather do it himself than watch some idiot dangle his power over the folks like he'd dangle his... never mind, _Of the people, for the ra-ra-ra...goddamn I'm tired._

Unfortunately, Hancock didn't think to take anything before passing out, the idea and benefit didn't even cross his mind, which it should have, given that he's always heavy sleeper on chems and without them he's literally a boot drop away from being startled awake. Which is why, abruptly, he's blinking, startled, into the dimly lit room he passed out in, on the couch he usually got high on, wondering why the hell he's suddenly awake before the sun could worm its way in through the eastward windows.

"Wuh-th-fuh..." He drawls out, pivoting his head to look around in a haze and spotting someone standing his feet with their arms crossed, he stares at them for a moment and then repeats himself without any clarity, " _Wuhthfuh?"_

The figure reaches over and turns on the lamp, igniting the room and revealing the shadowy profile of his Second-In-Command, Fahrenheit, as she stands over him wearing her jeans and a stained grey tank top. She looks like she's just woken up too, he can see the irritation lined in her sun baked face.

"Up and at 'em," Her voice is rough and gravelly, "You've got company."

Hancock blinks through his two narrowed slits for eyes against the suddenly blaze of light, processing, as he stares at her, realizing that she woke him up _on purpose_ to tell him... someone is here... here. Here to see him. Someone is here to talk to him freaking _now? Before sunrise?_

He lets out something not quite committing to a growl, his head falling back onto the pillow curled in his arm, "...later." he sighs.

Fahrenheit sighs too, "Pops..."

Hancock lifts his arm and half-heartedly waves it at the coffee table, "Just... give 'em something... I'll deal with it later."

"You're really gonna want to get up and turn around."

Despite the hour, Fahrenheit sounds neutral, cool, and exactly the opposite of the way he's feeling, and after a moment of silence, Hancock realizes that whatever issue needs his expertise isn't about to go away anytime soon, so he begrudgingly pushes himself up from the couch.

"I swear to god..." He gets to his feet shakily, (thankful that he didn't bother to undress before passing out because he can't imagine trying to piece his costume together right now), and stumbles a little, knocking the coffee table in the process and rattling the two bottles that sit amongst the cartridges of jet, "if it's another one of those chem dealer asshole selling to kids, I'll just shoot 'em without another warning."

Fahrenheit stands facing him with her brow cocked, arms folded, only a couple inches taller than him but taller nonetheless, when the hell did she get so tall?

He shrugs at her expectantly, "Well?"

She then steps to the side, around the end of the couch, to reveal a figure standing in the doorway to the sitting room and suddenly Hancock comes to an alert pause when his clouded eyes meet the familiar bright yellow gaze of the dishevelled silhouette.

For a moment Hancock considers that he may have actually taken something before going to sleep, something akin to that experimental drug he took way back whenever the hell, because it looks a hell of a lot like _Nick-Goddamn-Valentine_ is standing on his doorstep for the first time in what must be a year by now and he looks like he's been shoved into a manhole seventeen times.

Hancock opens his arms in astonishment, not really sure what to say or think, as the detective stands filthy, ragged, and nervously quiet. He can tell because he's winding his hands together and fiddling with that damn loose screw in the joint of his wrist, waiting for Hancock to say something, or waiting to think of something to say, he's not too sure.

All he can know for absolute certain is that he doesn't look like he's here for a long overdue visit.

"Nick," Hancock finally says, totally bewildered.

The old synth looks apprehensive, "Hi, John."

Blossoming at the sound of his voice, Hancock grins wide and lets out a raspy chortle as he practically gallops forward, half stumbling, so he can wrap his arms around the rigid, statue-like frame of his old friend. Forgetting for a moment the last time they spoke and how long it's been, because he's too goddamn happy to see him to care about any of that right now.

He also completely forgets about the lack of plush because it feels like he's ramming himself into a wall in the process.

"Nick!" He exclaims, a little winded and sore in his arms and ribs, "Of course you're the only asshole who'd wake me up before dawn. Damn, it's good to see you!"

Nick, stumbling back a little from the impact, chuckles in what sounds like astonishment, "Didn't think you'd actually be asleep."

"You caught me on one hell of an off day," Hancock lets him go after a moment to take a proper look at him, aside from the grime, he doesn't look to have changed much. There might be a ding or two on his face that looks new, but he appears to be the same ole' synth, "You look good."

Nick smirks a little, turning his head to chuckle bashfully, "You're a bad liar."

Hancock shrugs, "Can't blame a ghoul for trying."

Nick chuckles deeply, and looks down at Hancock with his eyes glowing in the low light, taking a moment to exchange a fond glance before the Major of Goodneighbour can see the familiar warm gaze slowly drain back into the apprehension before he has an opportunity to grasp at it. For a moment there, nothing had changed between them, but... that's not exactly true anymore. Now that he thinks about it, it hasn't been for quite some time and he's starting to feel the impending guilt rise in the back of his skull.

The detective then drops his tone, speaking lower, as if weary of eavesdroppers, "Look, I uh... hate to drop in like this, but... I need your help."

Hancock smiles a little in defeat, nodding, "Yeah, I had that figured."

"I don't mean to take advantage of..." Nick hesitates, sighing, "I mean, I would've dropped by sooner if-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Hancock gently squeezes his upper arms where his hands are resting, "Don't worry about it, it ain't a thing, just tell me what you need."

For a moment, Nick looks like he wants to argue, but instead he gives in to the all accepting forgiveness that Hancock is offering and ducks his head, "I got caught in a situation," He explains, "Pretty serious one, and I have two folks downstairs that need a doctor. I'm not sure how bad it is, but we can't make it to Diamond City as is, I was wondering if..."

"Amari," Hancock nods in understanding, "Yeah, she ain't that kind of doctor, but she'd know better than anyone around here. I'll get one of the Watchers to go down to the Den and wake her up."

"I appreciate it," Nick smiles tenderly.

"You got it," Hancock returns the expression and releases his arms, "I'll get Rufus down here, get him to take a look at you too. You look like you need it."

Nick immediately shakes his head, "No, no, I don't think that's..."

"Come on, I insist," Hancock presses, "You look like you've been dragged to the sewers and back."

Nick looks at him for a moment, and suddenly he can see a little of his old playfulness shine through as he exhales and tilts his head back, "Oh, you have no idea..."

With an assured smile, Hancock turns back around to Fahrenheit with something of a request on the tip of his tongue, considering she's the one in charge of the Neighbourhood Watch, but when he does, it hits him with an embarrassing delay that this slightly tense and awkward reunion doesn't exactly involve just the two of them, but her as well. The moment he sees her, sees the expression on her face as she stands much less interested in the conversation and more so of the contents on the coffee table, her brow so low that it almost obscures her glare, he recalls that Nick leaving didn't affect just him and suddenly he feels like an absolute moron for not realizing it minutes ago.

"Hey, uh..." Hancock quickly glances back to Nick, speaking significantly lower, "I'll meet you down there, okay?"

Nick returns his gaze, but the old synth went and followed his view with an intuitive foresight that he seemed to always posses, and before he answers, his gaze lingers on the fiery red-head a moment longer, something a hell of a lot like shame glazing over his expression before he nods in agreement, "Sure, sure..."

The Watcher that had escorted Nick up had been standing outside the door during the conversation, so when his old friend passes through the entryway once more and shuts the door quietly behind him, the Mayor and his Lieutenant are suddenly alone in a big quiet room that normally held the energy of relaxation and contentedness, but now it's far more thick and tangible with anger and tension.

It takes only seconds for Fahrenheit's lip to curl, generally she's pretty hard to read when she's not feeling anything in particular, but everyone knows when she's angry because she doesn't make an effort to hide it when it hits.

"He shows up after all this time-"

"Don't..." Hancock interrupts her before she can climb into a verbal rage, he doesn't want her to react without thinking, it would do a hell of a lot of damage now that she'd regret later, "Fahr, don't. What matters is that he showed up at all."

Her scowl deepens, but she doesn't raise her voice, "Sounds to me like he didn't have a choice. He's in trouble and that's the _only_ reason he's at our door."

Hancock sighs and drops his hands, "Of course he had a choice, you know better than that."

She lets out a huff of angry laughter and turns away from him, pacing a few steps towards one of the windows halfway covered by a torn red curtain that doesn't quite match his petticoat. Hancock gives her a moment and then walks around the couch towards her, close enough that he can reach out and touch her shoulder.

"You need to cut him some slack, alright?" He says gently, "It wasn't an easy decision for him to make, not just because of me, but because he had _you_ to think about too."

Fahrenheit turns her head to look at him, her anger is colder now, more reserved, she figured as much as he had that Nick would show up again at some point, they never really talked about what happened, but he knew she took it hard, he could tell by her body language, her suddenly carelessness, she began to smoke more, drink more, thank god she had enough sense not to do more chems than she normally would. He didn't want to have to pry her away from them; the smoking and drinking was one thing, but the chems...

"Y'know he saw me almost as soon as he got past the gate?" She starts, her voice once more committing to a low neutral tone, "He didn't say anything to me, he just asked for you."

"Fahr..."

"It's _always_ been about you, Dad," She snaps, "He didn't ask for me, I was just baggage that he had to get to know in the off-time, the moment it was over, he was probably _relieved_ that he didn't have to deal with me any-"

"Fahr!" Hancock admonishes, "Where the hell is this coming from, you _know_ that's bullshit!"

"You don't think he'd _actually try to get to know me_ if you two weren't-!"

Hancock's size is mostly made up from his petticoat, so trying to manhandle someone larger than him wasn't a cakewalk, but somehow, either she wasn't expecting it, or he was too damn angry, he manages to grab Fahrenheit and turn her to face him before she could go any further, " _ **Stop.**_ "

A little startled, Fahrenheit doesn't do much to stop him, in fact it breaks some of her resolve and he can see both her cheeks turning red and her eyes begin to glaze. Hancock eases his grip and sighs, grabbing both of her hands instead of her armour.

"Look, we should've had his conversation a long time ago," He eases, "That's my bad, I didn't want to talk about it and I'm sure you didn't either, so we didn't, and then... we kept at it."

Fahrenheit's jaw clenches, her brows knitting together as shiny tears pool in her eyes, her right side leaks and sends a stream down her scarred cheek, she ducks her head and says nothing.

"You need to know, that it wasn't about us, okay, you and me?" He explains, "Nick had to work on himself, and I didn't exactly make it easy for him, but that's history now, I don't have any hard feelings. For you, it wasn't personal, I know he wanted to talk to you before he left, but the fallout was..."

"Whatever," Fahrenheit dismisses, "It doesn't matter. I'm getting upset for no reason. It's not like he's here to fix anything anyways."

"Hey, come on, you know he would if he-"

" _God!_ " She abruptly pulls her hands away, "You have to stop _doing that_ , acting like you know _what I know_."

Hancock sighs and drops his hands, "I'm just trying to-"

"I'm going out." She interrupts and turns to walk back towards the middle of the room, swiping one or two things from the coffee table.

Hancock shrugs a little in defeat as he watches her march out the door, her heavy descending footsteps echoing through the stairwell until he hears one of the front doors open and slam shut behind her on the second floor. For a moment the mayor of Goodneighbour stands with his hands on his hips, staring out into the room which had moments ago been his resting solace and finds suddenly that he isn't anywhere near tired anymore.

"Damn it..." He sighs heavily before he follows Fahrenheit's path to the coffee table to swipe a cartridge of jet, (he's starting to get a headache from being sober) and walks out of the room and down to the second floor where his new guests sit waiting.


End file.
